The Smuggler and the Scoundrel
by Mayhem O'Malley
Summary: Recently disgraced, James Norrington wants nothing more than oblivion, but it's a six month voyage from Tripoli to Tortuga and every voyage has its perils. And this one has a perilous captain. **MAJOR EDITS IN PROGRESS. Please read the version at archiveofourown because it's better than this one right now!**
1. Minorca

**A/N: ****It's been a very, very long time since I've actively written anything at all. It's been about two years, in fact. Dorm life had a pretty severe effect on my writing, since there were always people around and I have to be alone to get anything done at all. I only have about three and a half chapters left to write (including an epilogue), but I've decided to repost all the chapters since I've gone through and made minor edits to all of them.**

**After I'm done with this, I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I may leave POTC alone for a while and do some original work, but I will eventually come back to this story and do the slightly AU sequel that I have planned. Once "False Colours" is done, I'll be done with POTC for sure, unless massive inspiration strikes, and concentrating on original ideas. I may pop back into fanfic world every now and then, but it will likely be in other Canons. **

* * *

"_And then I crashed into you, and I went up in flames._

_Could've been the death of me, but then you breathed your breath in me._

_And then I crashed into you like a runaway train,_

_You will consume me, but I can't walk away."_

* * *

**The Smuggler and the Scoundrel**

**Chapter One: Minorca's Inn**

…_It is therefore proven to be true that you, James Norrington, possessed of rank and title of Commodore, did repeatedly defy direct orders to return to your command at Port Royal and that you did, willingly and in full knowledge of the danger, order His Majesty's ship, Dauntless, to sail through a most violent storm, resulting in severe damage to the ship and deaths of two officers and 432 men of her crew. For these actions you are hereby stripped of all title and rank and discharged without honor from the service of His Majesty's Royal Navy…_

…_deaths of two officers and 432 men…_

…_willingly and in full knowledge of the danger…_

It had become a kind of mantra in his head, an intractable repetition of accusations he had been unable and unwilling to deny and the sententious words that had delivered the death blow to the life he had so painstakingly built.

But, in some far off corner of his mind, he had known. He had known as the battered wreck of the once proud _Dauntless_ limped into harbor at Port Mahon with all that remained of her crew. It had been something of a morbid surprise to him that the survivors of his folly hadn't mutinied and killed him, as it would have been well within their right to do. Perhaps it would have been better if they had. He had known when he was brought before the Vice-Admiralty Court on Minorca the inescapable fate that would befall him. But for all his preparation, to hear those words had beaten and broken the very core of his existence, for what was he if not a military man? In light of his previously sterling record of service, the Vice-Admiralty Court had "allowed" him to resign involuntarily. This coup de grace made no difference; the Admiralty knew and _he_ knew what the truth of the situation was. A discharge without honor was a discharge without honor no matter how you packaged it.

How could he have let it happen? How had he allowed himself to become so obsessive, so single-minded in his pursuit of Sparrow that he had let it supercede his sense of duty? Because he had needed it. Elizabeth's sudden and very public rejection had hit him harder than he cared to admit, and so he had turned to his career—the one sure thing in his life—with fanatic zeal. He had occupied his every waking moment with charts and maps and the heady thrill of the hunt, just to keep himself from dwelling on thoughts of _her_. And it had worked— too well. _"By remembering that I serve others, Mr. Sparrow, not only myself." _How well he recalled saying it! He had discarded those high-minded ideals; after all, _serving others_ had lost him the woman he loved. Capturing the _Black Pearl_ became a personal mission of revenge and self-validation, but serving himself had proven just as ineffective; it had cost him his crew, his commission, and quite possibly a bit of his sanity. Sparrow had driven him to it, of course. If it hadn't been for Sparrow, he would still be the Commodore, he would still have Elizabeth, he would still have his _life_. All he had now were the clothes on his back and a bitter, boiling anger centered solely on that flailing, malapert, low-life…pirate!

Damn Sparrow! And damn his ship! He hadn't chased him all the way to the bloody Mediterranean for _this_! He hadn't trailed him across the Atlantic to have his ambitions whipped into oblivion by a _storm_! The storm…God, he had _known_ it was bad. He could still see the disbelieving faces of his crew; they had known they were doomed, but had followed his damned orders anyway. He could still hear Gillette pleading with him over the howl of the increasing gale…

"_Sir, we must turn back! We can't ride this out!" _

His own voice: _"We can! Keep to the present course!"_

"_Commodore! James, for God's sake, man, listen to reason!" _

…_willingly and in full knowledge of the danger…_

It was his fault, he knew. 434 men, dead by his order. 434 deaths on his conscience. Yes, he knew the fault was his, but brutal honesty was a poor companion, and it was so much easier to blame Sparrow.

James slammed the bottle to the table with more force than he'd intended, surveying its contents with morose satisfaction. One month. One month since the court-martial. One paltry month and already he was regularly drowning his sorrows like any common vagrant; like any _pirate_. He had never intended to turn to rum when he had first wandered into this grungy Port Mahon inn a fortnight ago. He had never been a drinking man. It had been his invariable opinion that over-indulgence was a vile practice not befitting a man of station, but when the barmaid had plunked the grimy glass bottle of amber liquid down in front of him, the idea had suddenly seemed appealing. _Drink up, Commodore_, he had told himself. _What have you left to lose? _In his…_previous life_, he had never been able to comprehend the revolting attachment men could have to their rum. After nearly fifteen nights with a bottle of the stuff constantly in his own hand, he understood. _After all_, he thought as he raised the bottle to his lips again. _I am no longer a man of station._

Slumped over a table in the dingy, malodorous common of the lowliest inn on Minorca, he was hardly recognizable. Only the storm-tossed vestiges of his powdered wig and the gold braiding on his rapidly staining coat betrayed him as a man who had once had honor and stature and a higher place in the world. _Honor and stature?_ Such things were not for the likes of him, a disheveled, red-eyed wretch with an increasingly desperate grip on a bottle. No, such things as honor and stature were not for him anymore. He threw back his head and downed the last mouthful of his third bottle in one vicious swallow, choking and coughing as it cut its way down his throat. _This_ was his lot now.

His surroundings were blurring significantly, but it was far from sufficient; another rum was in order. And most likely another after that. Bleary though his vision was, it was clear to him that the serving maids were all otherwise occupied. It seemed to be a requirement of this particular inn that all women employed prostitute themselves to the guests. Though several overtures had been made by the unabashed servers, that was one base habit he hadn't fallen prey to—yet. But never mind; he could fetch his own drink. James pushed himself up from the table and a sudden rush of vertigo sent him reeling into the nearby wall, barely able to keep himself upright. A giddy, cheerless laugh escaped him. Alcohol was an insidious thing—he was farther along than he'd thought. That dim realization didn't deter him in the slightest. He made his way toward the bar, the floor pitching like the deck of a ship, though to his irritation and scornful amusement he couldn't keep his footing the way he could at sea. He all but fell into the bar and, leaning heavily on the counter, slapped down a vague number of coins. The inn master sneered and pushed a full bottle at him with a wheezing chuckle and an all-too-knowing look in his eyes. James stumbled back to his table and glanced over his shoulder at the inn master, who had put his head together with a grizzled customer. The two men were whispering conspiratorially and once or twice the inn master pointed in his direction.

"Damned gossip," he snarled, taking a long pull at his drink. These were Minorca's slums for God's sake! Why were these vulgar dregs of society—which, he reminded himself, he now numbered among—so interested? Surely Navy derelicts were a common occurrence in a place such as this! It was astounding and infuriating how fast and far the rumor of his disgrace had spread. _"That man there,"_ they would say. _"'E must be that mad officer I 'eard about!" _James snorted. Mad indeed! Perhaps he was—it wouldn't surprise him. They may not know his name or the cause of his present situation, but their whispers burned his ears all the same. He had to get off this island—had to go somewhere where no one would neither know nor care who he had been and who he was now. And he knew _exactly_ where that was. It sickened him that he had such a strong desire to go to _that_ _place_, but he had sunk this low, what was a little lower? He had nothing to lose by it—except his remaining money and the best way to lose that was to a barkeep. The crux of the matter was he had no way of getting there.

If the voice hadn't been so distinctive James would have allowed it to slide away into the noise of the common, but after weeks of dropped H's and crude sailors' argot, cultivated speech reverberated in his head like a bell. He was simply enjoying the sound of it when one word managed to snare his muddled consciousness—_Tortuga. _

He looked around and, with some difficulty because his eyes refused to focus properly, spotted the owner of the voice—a scrawny youth in a black coat who was conversing with the brawny man at the table behind him. The young man stood and with a few final words to his companion, began to move towards the door. As he passed by, James reached out an unsteady hand and, by luck, managed to catch hold of the young man's sleeve.

"Something I can do for you, my good man?" the startled lad asked.

Blinking blearily, James tried to force his uncooperative tongue to form a coherent phrase; it was irritatingly challenging to string words together at the moment.

"You said…you said you were sailing for Tortuga?" he managed at last.

"Not directly—we've some other business to attend to—but yes, I plan to put in at Tortuga."

_Other business?_ Other business was unimportant. "Can you get me there?"

The young man frowned and pulled his sleeve free. "I'm sorry. I don't take on passengers."

"Then I'll crew for you!" James rasped.

_I just need to get off this island_.

The captain stood back and gave him an appraising once-over.

"You wouldn't be the first drunkard to sign to my crew," he said. "You know something about sailing, I take it?"

"The Navy was my life," James growled bitterly. "I should think I know enough."

"Very well," said the young man. He tapped his companion on the shoulder. "Pen and ink if you please, Mr. Ames."

A rumpled paper was smoothed onto the table, an inkwell and a woebegone quill were set beside it and James scrawled his name onto the docket. He was distantly aware of a faint apprehension, a half-formed thought that he should ask what the "other business" was before signing himself to it. But alcohol and bitter thoughts had long since clouded his judgement and he was desperate to put as much sea as possible between himself and Minorca.

He didn't notice the captain's eyes widen in recognition of the newest name on the list.

"That's settled, then," said the young man, tucking the docket inside his coat. He paused for a moment, then leaned both hands on the table and spoke in slow, concise words. "We sail tomorrow at noon, so it would be prudent of you to make this your last rum for the night."

James gaped at the man who was now his captain as if he'd never seen anything quite like him before. He laughed. Last rum for the night? What sort of absurd suggestion was that?

The young man took no notice of this, but addressed his companion at the next table.

"Mr. Ames. You are to…escort your new crewmate to the ship in the morning."

"Aye, Captain," the man replied in a gruff voice.

The captain straightened and with a curt "Good night", strode out of the inn.

James leaned his head back and smirked, an expression that was becoming more and more common with him. Tortuga…a veritable haven for a disgrace such as himself, where no one would speculate about the high-up Navy man fallen on hard times and whisper about court-martials.

"'E's serious about the rum, ye know, mate."

He turned, swaying dangerously, to face the burly man—Mr. Ames, had it been? Grinning derisively, he raised his bottle in a mock toast.

"So am I, _mate_," he said and took another drink.

* * *

The Mediterranean sun climbed steadily towards its apex, drenching the bustling hubbub of the Port Mahon docks in prickling heat. The playful sea caught the sun's rays, tossing them skyward again in a rippling dance of brilliant white light. It was a beautiful sight—a beautiful sight that James was doing his utmost to avoid. The excess of the previous night was making itself felt in the most violent way possible, and the light glancing off the mirror-like sea was by no means aiding his condition. His head felt as though it were being split open from the inside and the rolling, gleaming waves in combination with the less than aromatic scents permeating the air were making his stomach twist unpleasantly.

"Ye're lookin' a bit green 'bout the gills, mate."

_God above, why does he have to be so_ loud?

"Yes, thank you for informing me, Mr. Ames," James said with a grimace. The bear-like man was either something of a lack-wit or was being cruelly clever in his thundering attempts at conversation.

"Perhaps a spot of breakfast will do ye good," Mr. Ames boomed. "I've a sausage or two left from me own if ye'd care for one."

James had felt his gorge rise at the mere mention of breakfast, much less the idea of sausages, and had to fight down a wave of nausea before replying.

"No, thank you," he snapped. "I'm rather unwell, if you hadn't noticed."

Mr. Ames grinned a wide, wicked grin. "Oh, aye. _Unwell_."

_Ah. Cruelly clever it is._

"Thought you might like to know," Mr. Ames continued in his clamorous voice. "The captain's called Grace."

"Grace?"

"Aye, Captain Edward Grace. Best private hand for England ye'll meet and shrewd as the Devil to boot. It's a lucky man what gets to sail under 'im."

_Shrewd as the Devil?_ Mr. Ames may have meant it as the highest of praise, but James wasn't so sure he would consider himself lucky to sail under a man who had common attributes with the Devil.

"By 'private hand' you mean this Captain Grace is a privateer?" James asked. He had wanted to avoid talking, as the sound of his own voice made his head throb, but now that he was sober, he had to admit he was curious about what he'd got himself into by signing the ship's roster.

"Wantin' to be sure ye haven't signed the Articles, are ye?" Mr. Ames laughed. "Never fear, mate. Captain'll explain it to ye."

James rubbed his aching temples, frowning. The uncomfortable notion that he may have unknowingly signed the infamous pirate Articles had indeed occurred to him, but what made it such an uneasy idea was that he didn't seem to care whether he had or not. _Commodore_ James Norrington would rather have put a pistol to his own head than serve under the black flag, but James Norrington without rank or obligation was completely apathetic about it. Survival was his priority now, and to survive he would need money—how he acquired it was beside the point. Strange how quickly his mindset had changed.

"There ye have it!" Mr. Ames thundered, breaking him out of his caustic reverie. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

James cast a careless glance at the ship, a truly lovely brig. "She'll serve her purpose, Mr. Ames," he said; he didn't much care what the ship looked like or what colors she flew, so long as she got him off the island.

"Ah, ye'll come to love 'er," said Mr. Ames amiably. He gestured to the gangplank. "After ye, mate."

James had hardy set foot on deck when he was accosted by the most unwelcome sound he could have imagined: the rapid, high-pitched barking of an over-excited dog.

"Always knows the Navy men, our Oliver!" Mr. Ames guffawed from behind him. The filthy little creature, christened Oliver, apparently, sat yapping at him without seeming to draw breath, each bark sending lances of pain jolting through his head.

It was then that he noticed the gentle rocking of the ship as those gleaming waves rolled beneath the hull. Under normal circumstances he would have paid it no mind, but after over a month ashore and in his current state…

His stomach churned. He tried to swallow and force down the acrid bile rising in his throat, but his tongue seemed to have stuck itself to the roof of his mouth. The pounding in his head intensified, throbbing in time with his pulse. And that damned dog was still barking…

Someone seized him by the coat collar and shoved him up against the deck rail.

"Over the railing, if you _must_," hissed a disdainful voice in his ear.

His control over his insides had been sparse before, but having his gut slammed into the rail obliterated it entirely and he proceeded to lose what little there was left in his stomach.

"Either you did not take my advice or you have a very poor head for liquor," said the voice once he had stopped retching.

He looked up to see the young man—his captain—leaning on the rail next to him, a rather smug expression on his face. Now that he wasn't seeing him through a rum-induced haze, James had to wonder just how young this young man was. He was tall enough, but his build was slight and there wasn't so much as a wisp of a beard on his chin. Unlike the crew, which seemed something of a rag-tag bunch, he dressed like a merchant captain, with a black, tri-corn hat and unadorned coat and his yellow hair confined in a queue.

"Now, then," said Captain Grace, suddenly professional. "James—it is James, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Good. I couldn't be sure; your hand was rather illegible—I didn't even bother trying to decrypt your surname. But anyrate, I just want a brief word with you about the way things work on my ship." His tone remained cordial but there was a cold gleam in his eyes that James knew all too well—how often had he seen it gazing back at him from the eyes of his own reflection? It was authority; unquestionable, absolute authority. That telltale gaze wasn't gained just by giving orders; it came from expecting that those orders would be obeyed. James hadn't seen himself in a mirror for weeks, but he suspected that that sharpness was something he no longer possessed.

_Like so much else._

"The _Glory_ is a privateer vessel," Captain Grace continued. "I have my letters of marque from the Governor of St. Kitts to take Spanish and pirate ships. We don't bother with pirates unless we're certain we have them out-gunned, if not out-manned. As to rules aboard, there is to be no gaming for money and no brawling; all disputes are settled in a civilized manner. Theft from a fellow crewmate, or from myself, is punishable by lashes. Stealing from the prizes we take is theft from the entire crew, and I will have no reservations about keelhauling you. Your weapons are to be kept in good order and you must be ready for action at al times. Speaking of which, that is a fine sword—stolen, I assume?"

James glared, gripping the gold filigreed handle possessively. "You assume incorrectly," he snapped, making no attempt to keep the resentment from his voice. This sword…he didn't deserve to carry it. It was too strong a reminder of things as they had been—things as they _should _have been. He didn't even want to look at it; he kept it hidden best he could beneath his frock coat. Actually using the damned thing was out of the question, and so he had stolen a pistol off an unconscious man at the inn. It had been the first betrayal of his values; something C_ommodore Norrington_ would never have done. But the scoundrel he was becoming was an opportunist and he had learned quickly that in the bleak cesspits of society, an unarmed man was as good as dead.

Captain Grace straightened, clasping his hands behind his back, still smiling congenially.

"My rules are simple, James," he said. "But the simplest of all is this: I give the orders and you follow them. Nothing you're not used to, I'm sure."

James felt a sudden prick of irrational anger and, ignoring the pounding in his head, spoke before he could stop himself.

"To be quite frank, _Captain_," he spat, his tone venomous. "I am far more accustomed to giving orders than to following them."

Captain Grace's amiable demeanor never slipped as he surveyed James from head to toe, clearly taking in his bedraggled wig and officer's uniform.

"So I surmised," he said, fixing him with that imperative stare that reminded James so much of his former self.

James wrenched his eyes away and stared out at the horizon, scowling. _"Nothing you're not used to"_. By God, how that had rankled! He knew he shouldn't have responded the way he had, but it was yet another unneeded reminder of just how much he had lost to Jack Sparrow.

"If you're through brooding, Cromley will take you below."

He turned to face his superior, a sardonic smirk twisting his lips.

"Quite through, Captain," he said and made to follow this Cromley fellow towards to hatch, but Captain Grace stopped him as he passed.

"Oh, and James," he said, sounding bitingly offhand. "About your drinking. It's of no importance to me how inebriated you are at night when you're off duty, but don't expect any sympathy when you are facing the inevitable consequences as you are now."

God in Heaven, was this man _always_ smiling? Even his insults were delivered with a courteous air!

James tore his arm out of the captain's grip and stormed to the hatch where Cromley was waiting.

_By Christ! The boy is grinning, too!_

"Is everyone on this ship always so cheerful?" he growled.

Cromley, a brown-haired boy who couldn't be any older than fifteen, raised his eyebrows.

"Captain gettin' to ye, eh, mate?" he asked.

James glared. "No."

Cromley shrugged and grinned even wider, but—thankfully—didn't press the matter.

The dim light of the hold was a relief after the glaring sun, and James felt some of the ache in his head subside as his eyes relaxed. He was just beginning to feel slightly more alert when a shrill sound from above made him cringe. He looked up, squinting painfully, to see that _dog _staring sappily at him from the deck above. He groaned and moved further into the hold, looking around for Cromley, who seemed to have vanished.

_Of course there would be a ship's dog_, he thought as the creature in question continued to whimper. _And of course it would see fit to plague me with incessant whining. _

Cromley reappeared suddenly from the depths of the hold, carrying a baldric.

"Captain wants ye to have somethin' proper fer that fancy blade of yourn," he said, handing it to James. He glanced up toward the dog. "Annoyin' little rat, in'n 'e?"

"Exceedingly."

"He'll leave ye be if ye give 'im a good kick," Cromley said. "But 'ave a mind about it. If the captain catches ye at it, she'll lash ye naked to the mainmast."

James's fingers slipped on the belt buckle.

_Surely I misheard that? _

"Did you say 'she'?" he asked, incredulous.

"Aye."

James shook his head, an action he immediately regretted, as it made him rather dizzy. This was ludicrous.

"You mean to say that the captain of this ship is female?"

Cromley grinned. "Hides it well, don't she?"

James frowned, remembering a sailor's irrational suspicion of a young girl, long ago in another life. A woman as captain? He wasn't a superstitious man, but this didn't make sense, not even to him.

"I thought a woman aboard was bad luck," he said.

"There's some what thinks that way, to be sure. But they don't sail under Miss Grace."

"Miss Grace?"

"S'what the crew calls 'er," Cromley explained, clapping him on the back in a comradely way. "She don't know, a' course. To 'er face we call 'er Captain, but 'mongst ourselves she's Miss Grace. We're that fond of 'er, see?"

_A woman captain… I suppose I've seen stranger things._

"Well," he mumbled, following his crewmate into the hold. "It certainly explains the lack of a beard."

* * *

A/N: I've always wanted to do a Norrington story, since he struck me as a character with a lot of potential, but I didn't have any inspiration. Then I saw DMC and my brain (not to mention inner-fangirl) kicked into overdrive. I know some people didn't like it, but I was thrilled with his character development in DMC. I love characters that have fallen from grace; they're so much fun. On a side note, I'm something of an obsessive factualist, but the movie is a tad historically inaccurate, so I felt free to take some artistic license. Comments are nice, but constructive criticism is better! This is my first POTC fic, so if anything is glaringly wrong (or if you just have a suggestion) let me know!


	2. Open Water

A/N:

* * *

**Chapter Two: Open Water**

* * *

Captain Grace, alias Edward, sat behind the desk in her cabin, reviewing two rather troubling pieces of correspondence. She leaned back in her chair and dragged her fingers through her hair, which had been long since freed from its queue. Five weeks at sea, and she had abandoned the immaculate apparel of the merchant captain. She dressed like her crew now—a shirt that may have once been white, a tattered doublet, worn breeches and weather-stained boots. Of her merchant guise she retained only the black frock coat, which was for purposes of warmth rather than a mark of her captaincy; she needed no such paltry things to affirm her authority.

"Well, Richard," she said. "I've a letter here from Henry Skinner requesting that _Mr_. Hart meet him at Port Royal. What do you think of that?"

Richard Ames tugged at his beard, frowning in thought.

"Skinner…"he said. "The Charleston merchant?"

"The very same."

"What would e be askin' to meet us at Port Royal for?"

"That's just it," Grace said, standing and rapping her knuckles sharply on the letter in question. "He doesn't specify."

"Seems suspicious to me, Captain."

"Suspicious indeed, Richard. In fact, I imagine we may have a rather difficult situation on our hands."

"Ow do you make that?"

"Port Royal is not convenient for Skinner, nor is it safe," Grace said, beginning to tap her fingers methodically on her desk. "Why ask to meet there when Nassau is both closer and more secure? I think it is reasonable to assume that he has been apprehended."

"An' blackmailed," Richard supplied. "But that's just yer guess."

Grace plucked the second letter off her desk with a flourish. "More than just a guess, I'm afraid."

"Isaac's written to ye, then?"

"He has, and thank God for that," Grace said with a tense laugh. "The East India Company is closing in on smuggling in the colonies."

Richard exploded with a string of vehement curses and Grace glanced down at her cousin's letter.

…_If you want my advice, keep your head down for a while. Our agents in the colonies will sniff out the merchants first, but that could mean trouble for you if they extort your clients. Yes, they will resort to extortion; do not disbelieve it. I, personally, do not approve of this, but some questionable dealings have been occurring of late…_

Grace let the letter fall from her hand.

_Oh, God, Isaac! However do I thank you for this?_

"So if Skinner's been found out…" Richard trailed off.

"They'll use him to lure us in," Grace finished. She grimaced. "It's fortunate for us that his skills in deception are lacking."

_And that Isaac has no morals to speak of._

"Ow do we slip through this one, Captain?" Richard asked. "If e's askin' for _Mr_. Hart that means yer ruse is up an' done for."

"All we know for certain is that Skinner must be dealt with, and promptly," Grace mused, starting to pace. "Since he believes me to be _Mrs_. Hart, what we need is a _Mr_. Hart to serve as a distraction."

"Ye mean to take this up!" Richard exclaimed, a note of disbelief in his voice. "Captain, ye _know_ how risky it'd be to put in at Port Royal!"

"What choice do we have?" Grace snapped over her shoulder. "I know very well that this is a trap, but wherever Skinner is, we cannot afford to let him live. If that place happens to be Port Royal, then so be it."

Effectively chastised, Richard fell silent, allowing Grace to think.

_God, what a puzzle this is!_

It was going to require some fancy footwork to alleviate the situation without any of her crew—or herself for that matter—winding up at the nonexistent mercy of the East India Company. But after nearly eleven years in this business, Grace considered herself well versed in the art of deception. There were always possibilities; one had only to explore all options.

_I could refuse the summons and demand to meet at Nassau._

A worth prospect. Nassau was a place of barely restrained anarchy, so it was far more…appropriate for her purpose. Still, it was a risk, since wherever this rendezvous took place Skinner was likely to be watched, but the question was how much more of a risk was Port Royal?

_Decidedly more; there's Fort Charles to deal with, and I don't know the town well enough to disappear after the fact._

She stopped pacing. There it was; that elusive possibility.

"What's in yer ead, Captain?" Richard inquired.

"Our best option may be to send word to Skinner once we reach St. Kitts that we will meet at Nassau or we will not meet at all, but what if there were a way to do it at Port Royal?" Grace mused. She turned on her heel, grinning at her first mate. "Furthermore, what if it were safe to begin to establish our business there?"

"I'm afraid I don't take yer meanin', Captain," Richard said, looking at her quizzically.

"You recall the man we took on at Port Mahon?"

Richard chuckled. "Sir James, ye mean? Course I do. Fellow's been drunk nearly every night since we passed Gibraltar."

"Merciful God!" Grace groaned, halfway between amusement and shock. She crossed back to her desk and picked up Skinner's letter. "_Sir_ James, did you say?"

"Aye. Young Cromley thought it up. E's got some wild notions an' e figures the man used to be a knight."

Grace smiled. Joshua Cromley, though too energetic by far, was a remarkably intuitive boy. "He isn't far wrong," she said. "That rum hound you call Sir James has more hangings to his name than any other officer in the Caribbean."

She watched in wry amusement as the expression on Richard's face changed slowly from incomprehension to open-mouthed incredulity.

"Ye can't mean…" he stammered. "That can't be--"

"The infamous Commodore Norrington of Port Royal," Grace said, thoroughly enjoying the dramatic effect of her words.

Richard shook his head. "Mother of God!" he said. "Ow'd e end up on Minorca? An' in the _Bush and Thorn_, of all places!"

Grace smiled and, slowly, relishing the sound of shredding parchment, began to tear Skinner's letter. "_That_," she said. "Is precisely what we need to find out."

* * *

He couldn't remember the last time he had looked at the stars just for the pleasure of looking. Trained to the stringent confines of navigation, he had never spared a glance for the thousands upon thousands of cold, blinking specks outside those few necessary shapes. Now, unfettered by duty, he saw only the vast sweep of the heavens, gleaming and diamond-like, uninhibited by the moon. By all accounts it was too fine a night to be spent at the bottom of a bottle, but that was his immutable intention.

Sprawled on the deck with his back against the mainmast and a rum in his hand, James was far from content. He had hoped the demands of life at sea would somewhat deter him from these nightly bouts of insobriety, but much to his irritation his mind was frequently occupied with thoughts of Elizabeth. It was a natural consequence, really, that he found himself drinking more and sleeping less.

Was she well? Had she married Turner yet? Was she happy?

_Of course she is. It's Turner she loves, not me. Never me._

The amount of rum in the bottle lessened considerably with that thought.

It made his blood boil to think of that _blacksmith_ occupying the place that should have rightfully been _his_. He could still remember how Elizabeth felt in his arms, pressed against his chest and clinging to his coat while the muskets fired around them—the only time he had ever held her.

The bottle came to his lips again.

She had never been his; had never _wanted _to be his. It had all been a ploy…just a ploy.

_I'm drinking this too quickly._

Perhaps if he hadn't been so remote, hadn't been so damned _honorable_…if he had acted on impulse, allowed desire to control him for just a brief moment—

_Too much thinking—not enough rum._

He tipped to bottle to his mouth again, only to find it empty.

"Damn it all!" he growled, knocking the back of his head against the mast. What had he even come up here for? And with just one bottle! What kind of idiot was he that he couldn't even get drunk properly?

If she would just get out of his head, he could sleep. If he could just forget her warm smile and her kind eyes he could have a night of peaceful, much-needed rest instead of the feverish dreams of rum-soaked oblivion.

He had to wonder, would she be willing to accept him now that he wasn't so straight-laced? Would she find it in her heart to feel compassion, maybe even affection, for him now that he stood on the same ground as her beloved pirates?

_God, I need that drink._

He hadn't even begun to struggle to his feet when a full bottle was thrust quite literally under his nose. Startled, he glanced up to thank his unlooked for, but most welcome companion: Captain Grace.

_Well, this is unexpected._

"What's this, then?" he asked, eyeing the bottle with suspicion. He wanted it badly, but why would the captain be making such an offer when she had made it so clear that she disapproved?

_Does it really matter why?_

"It's a bottle of rum," she answered, matter-of-factly. "I trust you understand its purpose."

She was smiling again, but it was a devious, conspiratorial grin that James couldn't help but match. He took the bottle.

"And to what do I owe this sudden courtesy, Captain?" he asked once he had taken a liberal swallow.

"You could consider it a token of apology for my brusque manner towards you those first few days," she said, sitting down beside him. "But, in all actuality, it is because I think you need it."

"_You_ think I need it?" James laughed. "How do you come to that conclusion?"

He was well aware of how glaringly disrespectful he was being, but the rum was starting to go to his head. Or…was it because he was no longer bound by rigid, Navy etiquette? Was he…could he possibly be _enjoying _that?

_No, no. It's the rum. It has to be._

"It's been my experience that men such as you don't turn to drink without a reason," Grace answered, overlooking his contempt of her position. "A tragic reason, more often than not."

He took another swig from the bottle, which was rapidly growing lighter. "Men such as me? You mean desperate, thieving scoundrels?"

"I mean officers of the Royal Navy."

James gaped at her, mentally cursing his uniform, while she stared back with that stony gaze that demanded compliance; in the starlight it was impossible to tell what color her eyes were, but they were dark.

_Devil take you, you damn cunning harlot!_

"I may have a good bottle and a half of rum in me, but I am not at all inclined to reveal my _reason_, as you put it," he snarled. "And I do not take kindly to being tricked." He turned away and threw back another burning mouthful. "Be it by my captain or no."

Grace was silent for a moment, then, instead of chastising him for his disparaging outburst, she laughed.

_What in God's name could possibly be comic about this?_

"Come, now, James!" she cajoled. "You were so forward with me that first day!"

James looked at her askance. She couldn't possibly be teasing him! Could she?

_Ridiculous idea._

"I was…" he mumbled, casting his somewhat disjointed mind around for the correct word. "Hung-over, I believe is the common term."

"True," Grace conceded. "Though now you're well on your way to being drunk, so it makes no difference, really."

James didn't answer. He had signed to this ship to avoid the questions and the speculation, and here he was caught up by it all over again! This time the only escape was over the rail into the crushing blue, and he wasn't quite mad enough for that.

"Why are you so keen to know?" he asked after a long moment.

"Because when one of my men seems to be losing his mind, I generally like to know why."

_Losing my mind, am I? What an encouraging thought._

A crooked grin on his face, James raised the bottle to his lips. "Sorry," he said, and made short work of what was left of the rum.

_That should have lasted me far longer._

"Good God, have you finished that already?" Grace exclaimed; it was difficult to tell whether she was impressed or taken aback. Much to his surprise, she thrust another bottle into his hands.

_Oh, please!_

"Captain Grace," he said, leaning his head against the mast with an exasperated sigh. "I suspect you are hoping the drink will do my talking for me."

Grace shrugged. "You suspect correctly," she said. "But you'll drink it all the same."

_Too true._

He uncorked the bottle with slightly more difficulty than he had the previous; his fingers seemed to have lost some of their dexterity.

"Your health, Captain," he said with a nod, and drank.

What a strange situation this was! Him seeing double—or very nearly—and trading companionable banter with his lady-captain. It was certainly not usual.

"I'll make a deal with you, James," Grace said suddenly. "Secret for secret, hmm? I'm sure you must have a query or two about me."

She leaned closer—a bit too close for his comfort—and he inched away slightly, squinting at her rather blurred features. With her head uncovered and her hair falling about her face in wild tangles she looked much more feminine.

_Almost pretty, in fact._

Oh, yes. The rum was _definitely_ going to his head.

"I was…I…" he trailed off, caught between giving her the truth or the lie. She was his captain, for all that she was a woman, and conduct dictated that she deserved the truth, but…

"I resigned from the Navy," he heard himself say. His voice was flat, emotionless.

_James Norrington, you're a bloody coward!_

She said nothing, but he could feel her scrutinizing stare as yet another mouthful scorched its way down his throat.

"I'm sure you had your reasons for such an action," Grace said, her tone suggesting that she took his simple response with a substantial grain of salt.

"I believe you owe me a secret now, Captain," James said, wanting very much to shift the pressure off of him. He didn't want memories of his…error battering at his head tonight.

"So I do," Grace said with that irksome smile. "Just what is it you want to know about me, James?"

He took another ample sip of rum and looked at her languidly, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I would like to know how a fine lady such as yourself became captain of a ship of uncouth men."

It may have been an effect of the considerably high amount of alcohol in his system, but he could have sworn her smile faltered for a moment.

"How I became captain?" she mused, grinning once more. "Simple enough. I used to be a pirate."

"Haven't you got that backwards?" James sputtered, laughing. "Pirates don't become privateers…it's the other way around."

"Careful, James," Grace chuckled. "Your words are slurring."

_Excellent._

Now that he thought about it, his head did feel a bit…muzzy.

"But I assure you," Grace continued. "I was once a pirate. Are you familiar with the means by which one becomes a pirate captain?"

"I can't say I've made a study of the matter."

"Then you will be surprised to learn that I was voted into my position."

"Voted?" James repeated drunkenly. "That's a strange idea." Pirates voting for their captain? It seemed so…civilized! But if governors' daughters could marry blacksmiths, anything was possible.

He paused, on the verge of taking another drink, and glanced sidelong at his captain.

"And what possessed these men to vote you in in the first place?" he asked, smirking.

Even inebriated as he was, it was apparent he had asked a very delicate question.

Grace was no longer smiling and she was no longer looking at him. She stood suddenly, staring straight ahead, her expression unreadable and her stance defiant.

"They have their reasons," she said, and without so much as a parting glance, she was gone.

James stared after her, frowning. The icy tone of Grace's voice had cut through the alcohol somewhat and started his mind turning again, albeit sluggishly. Clearly, he wasn't the only one who would prefer some things be kept under the ivy bush, and he knew it would be a very foolish thing, indeed, to inquire again what those reasons might have been.

So she had been voted into the captain's cabin, had she? And by a band of pirates no less, which meant she must exhibit certain…qualities prized by such ungovernable men. Qualities any pirate would possess…qualities that Sparrow must possess.

James shook his head, causing the deck to spin even more than it already was. Qualities? No, '_traits'_ was a more apt word; 'qualities' had such a positive connotation, and anything remotely connected with that swaggering vagrant was certainly not positive.

'_Shrewd as the Devil', indeed!_

The association was completely sensible, now. Only a pirate would liken his captain to the Devil and mean it as a compliment.

_Intriguing. Most intriguing._

He didn't realize, as he drained the bottle to the dregs, that his mind was no longer occupied with thoughts of a certain lady from Port Royal.


	3. The Red Jack

A/N: I'm so, so sorry about the ridiculous delay; this chapter gave me the worst writer's block I've ever had. I am, regretfully, a rather slow writer anyway, due to the fact that I am incredibly picky with my words. Gigantic group projects in which we re-write _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ do not help, nor do finals and scheduling and Christmas. So, I'm switching tactics. I'm going to try to write the entire thing, then edit chapter by chapter instead of writing one chapter then editing. As I finish editing each chapter, then I will update. I know exactly where I'm going, so my only hurdle is my own perfectionism and my ridiculously busy schedule.

(_Brief note: The Spanish is translated at the end of the chapter, as putting it in-story would disrupt the flow. Also, are they even Spanish? If anyone figures it out and has any translation corrections for me, please tell me so I can make changes!)_

* * *

**The Smuggler and the Scoundrel**

**Chapter Three: The Red Jack **

* * *

As every sailor knew and every romantic-minded landsman refused to believe, life on a ship was, for the majority of the time, so dull it was excruciating, and the _Glory_ was no exception. The voyage had slipped into a familiar, cyclic routine, each day blending into the next, and that into the next until it was all a ceaseless monotony of sea and sky and unbroken horizon.

For James, it was nothing short of torture. Forbidden to drink during the day—a directive that applied only to him it seemed—and deprived of the duties and academic pursuits that had accompanied his previous expeditions, he found himself with nothing but his thoughts to occupy his time. _That_ was a most disagreeable situation, and so to avoid it, he allowed Cromley to regale him with a constant stream of stories over endless games of dice and cards. Despite the boy's irritating cheerfulness, James could not bring himself to treat him with the same cynical contempt he did the rest of the crew. In fact, much to his chagrin, Cromley had become almost like a younger brother to him. Almost. As for the rest of the crew, they primarily ignored him except for a handful of men—including Ames—who seemed to have an odd sort of pity for him. The captain, too, came to speak to him every now and again, though such times were rare and after that first nocturnal chat, she never again mentioned her unusual rise to captaincy. And he had gained one other constant companion besides Cromley: Oliver, the ship's dog, had taken to keeping him company when he was above deck at night. Though the animal was still an occasional nuisance, James had to grudgingly admit that he found it somewhat comforting to have the little creature curled up beside him while he avoided sleep and the cruelty of hearing the death shrieks of his men over and over and over in his dreams.

And so the weeks wore on—the dice rolled, the rum flowed, the waves crashed, onward into what seemed an eternity. Until one day, at long last, something happened.

"Up with you, Sir James!"

The cheery voice splintered the dark and the quiet with all the force of a broadside. James groaned. No, no, _no_, it could _not_ be time for him to be up…far too early…

"I hardly believe it is time for my watch, Cromley," he mumbled, eyes still resolutely closed.

"Watch? Who said anythin' 'bout watch? Get up, man! There's a Spaniard off our port an' Miss Grace means to take 'er!"

There was no thought in the action. Ingrained military instincts took over and James flung himself out of his hammock, slinging his baldric over his shoulder as he dashed up the stairs after Cromley.

The deck was a scene of familiar chaos: men darting back and forth, tightening lines, loading pistols, running out guns, and strapping on cutlasses. The air was so charged with reckless excitement it was nearly tangible. James felt an irrational, unwarranted sense of joy flooding through him. Here, at last, out of all the topsy-turvy mess that was his life, was something that he understood. It wasn't that he enjoyed violence, far from it, but he was a natural tactician and a fighter—battle was his domain, and that was something the Admiralty couldn't strip away.

James looked up, squinting against the sun and was unsurprised to see Spanish colors flying from the mainmast. It was a common ruse, though not one he'd ever used himself. Perhaps sometime in the future—

_What future?_

His mildly good mood dissipated as quickly as it had come. There was no future for him now, not really. The chances of him ever commanding his own vessel again were…slight, if not nonexistent.

_I couldn't be trusted with such responsibility. Not anymore. _

He scowled, watching the red, white, and yellow banner ripple and snap in the Atlantic wind. No, he could never command his own ship. He was an unstable commander, no longer fit to serve.

_What does it matter? The _Glory_ still sails for England, and I can still fight._

The thought was unbidden and utterly bewildering…but undeniably true. Frowning more in confusion than in anger, James looked out to the ocean. There was their quarry: a three-masted merchant vessel just off the port bow. She was close; very close. Well within range…

"Do you miss it, Sir James?"

He turned to answer his captain. "Yes, I do," he said.

Grace spared no glance for him. Her eyes were locked on the Spanish ship, calculating and cold, and almost…cruel? She was wearing her hat, and her hair had been pulled into a queue once again. She stood with her hands behind her back, feet planted squarely on the deck; a strangely familiar position. Her eyes narrowed suddenly.

"Keep close to me once we board, James," she said. Then, stepping swiftly away from him, she raised her voice. "All hands to port and run up the red jack!"

As one, the crew of the _Glory_ swarmed the port rail, brandishing everything from muskets to boarding axes, yelling fit to raise the dead. The noise and the excitement and the scent of gunpowder sparked the fighter in James and rational thought retreated. He drew his sword for the first time in months and in a fit of recklessness, jumped onto the taffrail, a raw scream tearing from his throat. He didn't allow himself a moment's pause to consider his actions; in the primal world of battle, dignity and appearance held no sway.

Did he miss it? Oh God, yes!

They were coming up alongside now, and he could just hear Grace's orders above the din.

"Fletcher! A shot across the bows! And for God's sake, don't hit below the rail!"

A shot across the bows—the international signal to heave to and surrender. James smirked; he more than half hoped the Spaniards would go down fighting.

There was a resounding boom, like a thunderclap, and splinters flew as the shot connected soundly with the fore rail of the Spanish ship. James cheered with the rest of the crew, but even gladly caught up in the mad oblivion of action, his tactical mind was clear. True, the _Glory_ was a slightly smaller ship, but her deck was teeming with some 300 or so wild-looking men and she was as well fit out as a fourth-rate. From what James' experienced eyes could tell, the Spanish had maybe twenty guns total and far fewer crewmen; her captain would be mad to strike back. As it was, the captain was not mad: the colors were hauled down, and the Spanish ship soon came to a stop. The boarding was swift and bloodless, one of the cleanest James had ever witnessed. Realizing they were almost laughably outnumbered, the Spaniards lay down their weapons and allowed themselves to be restrained. Their composure, however, did not at all mask their fury and indignation.

Grace stepped forward, and looking at her, James felt a sudden, fear-tinged nervousness. She did not appear angry, her expression was not unpleasant; it was simply blank, devoid of any emotion, and that was far worse.

"Search the ship," she ordered, and the half the men not restraining the Spanish crew scattered. Hands behind her back, she began to pace slowly back and forth in front of the row of prisoners. She halted before a striking, powerfully built man in a crimson doublet and gave him a thorough inspection.

"_Vostede é o capitán?_ she said; the man didn't answer.

James started, taken aback. Was that Spanish she was speaking? It would be advantageous for a privateer who took primarily Spanish merchants to know the language, but how on earth had she learned it well enough to speak it?

_Her parents must have been somewhat unpatriotic. _

The Spaniard glared, his hands balling into fists. "_¡Hijo de puta!_" he snarled, struggling against his captor. Grace's eyes narrowed. She pulled her pistol from her belt and pressed the barrel to the man's chest; James heard the distinct sound of the hammer clicking back.

"_Vostede é o capitán__?_" she repeated.

"_Sí_," the man replied, loathing and rage boiling in that one syllable.

"_Ben_," Grace said with a congenial smile that did not reach her eyes, tucking her pistol back into its place; the smile did nothing to dispel James' sense of unease. "_Dime__, capitán,_" she continued. "_O__nde está indo e onde veu__?_"

Defiant, the Spaniard squared his shoulders and spat on the deck at Grace's feet. The atmosphere changed. The crewmen holding the Spanish glanced at each other with worried expressions and James unconsciously drew back. Though he hadn't understood a word of what had been said, one thing was apparent: the Spanish captain had made Grace mad—very mad.

With that same impassive expression, Grace stepped forward and struck the man hard across the face with the back of her fist.

"_¡Cabrón!__ Eu non teño tempo para a súa insolencia!_" she snarled, her voice biting and harsh like the crack of a whip. "_Dime o que quere e, posiblemente non matalo_."

"Captain!"

Grace tuned away from her prisoner and James followed her gaze.

"My God!" he breathed, a surge of protective rage washing over him.

Mr. Ames had come up from the hold, dragging along a terrified young woman. She looked to be about sixteen and was very pretty, even with her dirt-streaked face and eyes swollen and red from crying. Her clothes appeared intact, but that was no guarantee that she had not been inappropriately handled. After all, most of the crew were former pirates and all had been without a woman for over two months. It was harsh and disgustingly immoral and _wrong_, but it was the reality. Regardless of her nationality, no woman should be raped—it was _wrong_. James clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists—all he could do was watch.

_If they've done anything to her, so help me God, I'll kill them._

As Mr. Ames and his "find" came around the line of prisoners, the Spaniard gave an inarticulate bellow of rage and began fighting his bonds like a man possessed.

"_¡No! ¡Por favor, ella no! ¡No mi Elena, por favor!_" The man collapsed to his knees, weeping.

Grace didn't even blink—she simply stared with those cold eyes of hers, weighing, calculating. James looked away, disgusted by her indifference. A sharp sob from the girl made him turn back; Grace had now applied her dispassionate scrutiny to the girl.

"Elena," he heard her murmur. "_Que bonito__…_" she glanced at the Spaniard, still on his knees. "_É a súa filla, o capitán, non?_"

Then, to James' horror, Grace pulled her pistol from her belt again and placed the barrel firmly under the young woman's chin. She needed no words.

The Spaniard rambled off some more liquid babble that must have included what Grace wanted to hear, because she smiled and tucked her pistol away. The man was hauled roughly to his feet and shoved in the direction of his own cabin.

"Lock the rest in the brig," Grace barked, and returned her attention to the girl, who was now past the point of tears. After a moment's pause, she snatched the girl by the hair and, much to James' surprise, flung her straight into his arms.

He caught her out of instinct, and she went limp, too drained from fear and crying to struggle as she had with Ames.

_My God, she's younger than I thought!_

She was so frail, so fragile; she couldn't be more than fourteen. He could feel her trembling—she was so frightened, so very frightened. She glanced up at him, and the look of absolute terror on her face cut him right to the core. What did she expect him to do to her? For that matter, what did _Grace_ expect him to do to her?

"Take her back to the ship," Grace instructed. "Stay with her in my cabin until Ames comes to fetch her."

James glowered at his captain, but those icy eyes, devoid of all feeling, unfathomable as the sea itself, gave him no answers. Stiffly, he took the girl by the arm and carried out his orders.

* * *

With an air of weary finality, Grace closed the log book and tucked her quill away in her desk, rubbing her temples. It had been a long—very long—day; necessary ruthlessness followed by hours of negotiating followed by hours of painstaking paperwork, recording everything taken from their prize, down to the last chicken egg, and to finish grandly, the official report.

She leaned over her desk, head in her hands, cringing and hissing through her teeth as the pressure of her forehead on her palms sent lancing pains down her forearms. It subsided quickly, only to be replaced by the dull, but insistent, ache in her wrists…and elbows…and shoulders…and hips…and…

_I despise the Atlantic._

Less than a fortnight from the Caribbean, and the nights were still frigid. It was well enough in the day with the sun beating down, warming the boards, but with the dark came the cold and with the cold came the pain. It varied in its intensity—more often than not, she could ignore it to the point that it was a constant thing, lurking just below her conscious thought. Then there were times it was so throbbing and all-encompassing that she would do anything just to dull it a little. Tonight it was the latter.

Grace growled under her breath as she pushed herself up from her chair, feeling the wrenching grind in her hip. She limped to the door and paused before she opened it, leaning heavily on the knob.

_How much more of this can I take?_

She sighed. Her days at sea were numbered, she knew, but at a mere twenty-seven years, coming up on twenty-eight, she realized, she should not have been considering giving up her chosen life. Still, she had been extremely fortunate and she thanked God with all her being for it. By all accounts, she should have died nine years ago, but she hadn't and now she was left with the consequences. She was sailing on borrowed time.

Grace took a deep breath, steeling herself against the pain and pushed the door open. She crossed the deck, intending to go down to the cargo hold, but stopped halfway there. James was up, as usual, leaning on the starboard rail, and if everything else was usual, he'd have a bottle of rum for company. Grace moved to stand beside him, making a concerted effort not to limp and leaned on the rail as well, mimicking his pose. He made no sign that he had noticed her presence, but sure enough, his right hand was clenched around the neck of a bottle.

"Do you mind if I order you to share that?" she asked, and the words felt strange, as if they didn't quite roll off her tongue right.

Wordlessly, James pushed the bottle towards her, without so much as glance in her direction. Grace took hold of it, but didn't drink, regarding him with a frown. She was accustomed to his laconic manner of conversation and snide despondence, but this open, obvious antagonism was rare, even for him.

"You're angry with me," Grace stated, suddenly hitting upon the problem. "Why?"

He looked at her then, and the intensity of his gaze took her by surprise.

"Why?" he said. "What you did today was…"

His mouth snapped shut and he jerked his gaze out to sea; apparently his anger had left him at a loss for words.

"I did my _duty_ today, James," Grace said wearily. "They were Spanish and I am a privateer for England—it was not piracy."

_It was not piracy._

"No. It was worse."

For a moment, Grace was bewildered—it was an odd thing for the most feared pirate hunter in the Caribbean to say there was something worse than piracy—but then she remembered his expression during the raid. She remembered the shock on his face when she'd handed the terrified Elena over to him and the look of sheer disgust in his eyes when he'd been given his orders.

"I assume this has something to do with Captain Prieto's daughter," she stated.

James spun full on to face her, incensed. He didn't shout, but his voice shook with the effort of suppressing the urge to do just that.

"You _exploited_ her!" he spat. "Used her as a _bargaining piece_! She was a _child_ and you put a pistol to her throat while her father wept! He wept _on his knees_ and you used that. I saw your eyes, _Captain_. You felt nothing!"

She could have ordered him to be silent and reminded him who gave the orders, she could have had the hide whipped from his back for his contempt, she could have done a dozen things, but he had struck deep and didn't know it.

_E eu xuro por Deus, I'll let him know!_

"I did what was necessary to achieve my aims," Grace hissed, forming her words as precisely as she could through the haze of her anger. "_That_ is called pragmatism."

"Pragmatism?" James bit back with a cold laugh. "Where does your pragmatism end and cruelty begin?"

It was an accusation—an accusation that plunged far too close to her own thoughts and Grace struck back.

"And you would have treated them differently would you, _Navy_ man?" she snarled, her voice still not above speaking level, but all the more venomous for it. "How many men like that captain have you killed? How many fathers haven't come home because of you?"

_And how many because of me?_

Grace was expecting a retort, she was expecting rage as they stared at each other. She was _not_ expecting James' face to soften and the anger to be replaced so swiftly by such profound devastation and self-loathing. And she certainly had not expected the half strangled sound—almost like a sob—that wrenched from his throat as he turned away.

"Forgive me," she said, surprised to hear the strain in her own voice. "I shouldn't have spoken so harshly."

James sighed, his head bowed. "I can't fault you for speaking the truth. I deserve your harsh words, Captain."

"As do I."

He looked up at that rather peculiar statement, his brow drawn in thought. Neither spoke, but an understanding passed between them—a recognition of sorts that needed no discussion.

"You didn't really resign, did you?" Grace asked suddenly. Seeing the unmasked grief in his eyes, she added, "I won't ask why."

"No, I did, but was hardly voluntary," James answered with a bitter smile. "Truth be told, I didn't give a damn what happened to me." He smirked in that singular way of his, and it gave him a slight appearance of madness. "And I still don't."

So he _had_ been court-martialed; she'd thought as much. But the triumph of having her suspicions confirmed was deadened by the despair in James' voice.

"Did you even present a case for yourself?" Grace asked.

James' laugh surprised her. It was deep, but sounded sharp and so bitter she could almost taste it. It gave the sense that he was laughing at himself, and only at himself, because nothing but the irony of his sorry state amused him anymore. It sent an unexpected chill down her spine.

"Misfortune is my lot, Captain," he said. "Whatever hardship befalls me is the very least of what I deserve."

Unable to think of an adequate response to such a weighty statement, Grace looked away. A sudden twinge in her left shoulder reminded her of why she had a bottle of rum in her hand, and she took a fast, rather copious swallow, surprised to find the bottle mostly full. The harsh liquor burned her throat, the sensation magnified by the fact that she swallowed quickly.

"_Porra__!_" she swore through a fit of violent coughing.

"If you dislike the stuff so much, why drink it?" James asked.

"I could ask the same of you," Grace answered once the coughing had subsided, her voice hoarse. She took another swallow, and though it went down more smoothly, she still grimaced. "It serves its purpose. Laudanum is hard to come by, and when we do come by it it's best to keep it for when it's truly needed."

"Ah," James said. "Is it this?" He lightly ran a finger along her left hand where a wide, sloppy scar stretched from the base of her forefinger to her wrist. "You favor your left arm, I've noticed."

_He's an observant fellow when sober._

Grace flexed her hand, feeling the stiffness and pain the simple motion caused.

"No," she said, mournfully. "This happened before I was captain…a piece of broken spar during a storm. No, the real problem is here." She tapped her left shoulder. "I was shot by a Frenchman. The surgeon got the bullet out, but infection set in. I had a raging fever for weeks, and it left me with worse joints than an old man."

"And the crew knows this?"

"Ames knows, but for the rest, if they knew, they're forgotten; it's been nine years."

"Nine years!" James said, incredulous. "Nine years and no one's noticed?"

Grace choked down another mouthful of the vile, saccharine liquid and shrugged. "Did your men ever notice so much about you?" she asked. "So long as you lead them well, what reason do they have to look closer than your rank? You become a god to them, and no one dares look closely at a god."

"I know," James said. "Oh, God, how well I know." His voice wavered. "It's so desolate…so cold."

Grace found herself unable to do anything but stare, enraptured. The raw pain on his face, the sadness, the hatred all turned inward on himself—it made her ache to hold him, comfort him, love him, cry for him since it was clear that tears were not a release he would allow himself. Desire hit her then, hard and sudden like a kick in the gut. She took a slow, steady breath but couldn't shake the feeling or still her suddenly racing heart.

He was a handsome man, disheveled drunk though he was, and while Grace had been far from blind to the fact, she had not been drawn to him until this moment. Looking at him now, she was struck by a sense of beautiful tragedy. She had been lucky enough never to have met him in his glory days—her sort who made the acquaintance of the Scourge never returned to bear witness—but the broken man beside her, his shoulders bowed with grief, was so unlike any vague suspicion she'd ever heard. He was an unchecked whirlwind of emotion, and that chaos drew her. She wanted him, she realized, and wanted him with a dangerous fervor.

_Ai, calme-se!_

Grace took another sip, although she knew it wouldn't help steady her mind any. The intensity of her reaction didn't surprise her greatly; after all, she'd not taken a lover in eight years.

_Nine, soon._

It was a jolting reminder. They would make St. Kitts in four days; she needed to be prepared. Grace sighed and slid the bottle back across the rail.

"Thank you," she said. James took the bottle, his head still bowed.

"Did it help any?" he asked, and the almost child-like sincerity of his voice tugged at Grace's heartstrings.

"For now," she answered and was suddenly breathless when a melancholy, but beautifully genuine smile quirked at his mouth.

"Good," he said, barely above a whisper. He looked at her with a sigh, brows drawn. "You should sleep, Captain."

"As should you," Grace replied. "But I've still…something to see to."

James nodded and Grace moved away from the rail with much more ease than she'd had coming. A sudden thought made her turn back. James' hands were clasped loosely around the rum bottle, and she lay one hand on his.

"Go easy with this, James," she said. "It helps, yes, but it never fixes."

He drew a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, turning his head away—a refusal.

_Oh, you fool._

Grace sighed, and with a murmured "Good night", returned to her cabin.

She didn't hear James' tearful laugh or see him fling the bottle into the black waves below.

* * *

Spanish Translations: (Or is it Spanish? Keep in mind, they are poetic, not literal, and there is swearing.)

"_Vostede é o capitán__?_"—"Are you the captain?"

"_¡Hijo de puta!"_—"Son of a bitch!" (lit. 'son of a whore')

"_Sí_,"—"Yes"

"_Ben ... Dime, capitán, onde está indo e onde veu?_" –"Good. Tell me, captain, where are you from and where are you going?

"_¡Cabrón!__ Eu non teño tempo para a súa insolencia! Dime o que quere e, posiblemente non matalo__._"—"Bastard! I don't have time for insolence. Tell me what I want and maybe I won't kill you." (_¡Cabrón!_ is actually more of a connotation than a meaning. It's meant to describe a man who is too weak to stop his wife from cheating on him.)

"_¡No! ¡Por favor, ella no! ¡No mi Elena, por favor!_ "—"No! Please not her! Not my Elena, please!"

"Elena, _Que bonito…__ É a súa filla, o capitán, non__?_"—"Elena…how pretty. She's your daughter, isn't she?"

_E eu xuro por Deus__—_And I swear to God

"_Porra__!_"—Damn it!

_Ai, calme-se! _—Calm down/Relax

A/N: Thank you so much to the lovelies who reviewed Ch. 2. I hope you're still actually reading, after the disgusting delay.

This chapter was particularly hard to write, since it wasn't originally supposed to exist, and I had to scrap everything and start over a couple times. Besides, naval battles are tricky things to portray, and I couldn't decide on James' opinion about the whole thing.

Chapter 4-Carreen at St. Kitts: Grace gets vital inside information, James gets interrogated, and meet Isaac!

**E. S. Young**_-"__James needs to realize that he deserves much better than Liz." _Yes, indeed! She's just no good for anyone…life-wrecker. (I absolutely loved your story "The Ring O' Bells", by the way!)

**Cheorl**-Yes, I know. It does seem unwise for James to be running about Tortuga in his uniform, but I've been studying his costume, and he actually _isn't_ wearing most of the uniform! He has a different shirt, waistcoat, belt, and breeches, not to mention the boots instead of the buckled shoes. The only things he still has are the wig, the coat, and the hat. Imagine the possible reasons…;D


	4. Careen at St Kitts

A/N:

* * *

**Chapter Four: Careen at St. Kitts**

* * *

In the five days it took to reach St. Kitts, James saw more of the captain than he had on the whole two month voyage. Their conversations became a nightly occurrence and she often stood watch with him or sought him out to discuss tactics. An unspoken agreement had manifested between them that so long as he didn't ask about her past, she wouldn't press him about his; James was grateful for that as well as the company. The concern she had shown for him the night after the raid had been so surprising he hadn't been sure how to react; after all, it had been so long since anyone had given him a second thought. It meant something to him—what, he couldn't say—but it was something, and he owed her thanks for it. The words, though, stuck in his throat like sand, and so he thought it best to let his actions speak for him. For nearly four days, not a drop of rum passed his lips. He ignored his appalling thirst and suddenly shaky hands as best he could, all the while refusing to acknowledge what he knew it meant. His crewmates knew it as well, though they never spoke of it openly, and not even Cromley would broach the subject within James' earshot. They simply shook their heads in a pitying sort of way, watching him grow more agitated and sleepless as the agonizing hours of each day wore on, and waited for him to fail.

And fail he did. However much James thought he could combat the physical need, he was no match for his conscience. True, his body ached for the touch of alcohol, but his mind craved the numbness that came with intoxication. It was a nightmare that finally broke him, one that had since become a regular torment. In it, he had slaughtered his men one by one in the most gruesome, horrific ways a soldier's imagination could invent, followed and encouraged by Elizabeth murmuring in his ear, "One more, James. Kill one more and I'll love you". He had woken in a cold sweat, utterly shaken, unable to think. He'd made his way to the hold where, he assumed, he had proceeded to drink himself into unconsciousness. When he came to the next morning, he had found himself back in the forecastle, _under_ his hammock with his worst hangover to date and almost no memory of what had occurred. His failure disgusted him, but, as horrid as it was, his life was easier to bear when he was drunk—when it took all his concentration just to stay on his feet, he didn't have a thought to spare for the dead.

Now, pushing his way through the crowded avenues of St. Kitts, James tried his best to force such thoughts to the back of his mind. The _Glory_ had docked that morning, and he had been more that glad to get away. He hefted the small leather pouch in his hand, his cut of the bounty paid for the Spanish ship and her cargo. It wasn't a fortune, not even a small one, but it was enough to buy him room and board at a decent inn for a week or two, which was what he wanted. After receiving some strange looks from his crewmates when he'd turned down their offers to accompany them "on their rounds" at the bawdy houses, Cromley had finally recommended him to a decent place that didn't hold with procuring its serving women.

James halted in front of a simple, three-story building whose carved wooden sign bore an elegantly drawn compass rose and below it the legend _The Star and Compass_. It looked respectable enough, but it wasn't so far from the docks that a grungy sailor would seem out of place. According to Cromley, the place regularly put up men from the _Glory_, and the proprietor, a Scotsman by the name of George Hunter, was an honest fellow who charged a reasonable price.

He was surprised when he stepped inside at how calm and quiet it all was. The common was far from empty, but there was no grating music, no brawling, and no garishly painted women hawking their services, just the low rumble of conversation. His fears that he would be forced to repeat Minorca vanished. His worn uniform earned him a few curious stares as he crossed the room and he sighed resignedly. There was nothing he could do about that—they were the only clothes he had. At least he'd had enough sense to leave his hat and decrepit wig on the ship.

The woman at the counter, though, spared no glance for his appearance. She was a pleasant looking woman with a broad forehead and a kind set to her mouth. Her brown hair, greying slightly at the temples, was swept up into a messy bun at the nape of her neck and her dress, while simple, was of a good cloth; clearly business was well enough to make ends meet and a little more. The woman, whom he assumed to be the innkeeper's wife, looked up from her work as he approached and smiled.

"Good day to you, sir," she said in a thick, Scottish brogue. "What might I be able to do for you?"

"Room and board for two weeks, ma'am, if you're able," James said.

"That we are, sir. Make your mark here, if you please," the woman replied, turning the logbook toward him. He took the quill and hastily scrawled "Adams" onto the page. It would never do to use his real name—he was fairly certain no one would make the connection between the slovenly "Mr. Adams" and Commodore James Adam Norrington.

_Former Commodore._

"Now then, Mr. Adams," the woman said. "Shall I show you to your room or would you like a bite to eat first?"

"I'll eat first, ma'am. Whatever you're serving."

Mrs. Hunter laughed. "I should have known. That's what all you sea-farin' sort want. We get some in here what haven't had a hot meal in over a year, poor souls. You're just come into port, I take it?"

"Yes, ma'am. On the _Glory_," James answered.

"I'm glad to hear it!" Mrs. Hunter exclaimed. "The Glory's been missed these past few months. Edward Grace is a good, honest man. We're always glad to have men of his here."

James managed a smile, but it felt forced and cold and no doubt looked it. If Mrs. Hunter noticed she gave no sign, for which he was thankful.

"Sit down, then, and I'll have something for you in a moment," she said, closing the logbook. She disappeared into the kitchen and James turned from the counter to find a seat. He moved automatically for the back of the room where, he hoped, he would receive fewer curious looks. He threw himself down on one of the long benches near the wall and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Any moment now it would start; the whispers, the furtive glances…

"_Lord, what's a Navy man doin' here?"_

"_Ah, he's no Navy man."_

"_Sure he is. Lookit his fancy threads."_

"_Well, 'e coulda stolen 'em couldn'e?"_

"_By Gaw, that's true. Is 'e a pirate, then ye reckon?"_

"You're a sailor."

The young voice jerked him out of his sardonic imaginings and James looked down to see a boy seated beside him on the bench.

"Beg pardon?" James said.

"You're a sailor," the boy repeated. Judging by the lilt in his speech, he was the innkeepers' son. "Me Da taught me how to know 'em."

"Is that so?" James replied, feeling his mood lighten in spite of himself. "And how might that be?"

The boy ran a hand through his black-brown hair, tugging at the curls that flopped over his forehead. "You walk like you think the ground's s'posed to move."

A smile tugged at James' mouth. "Your father's a sharp man," he said.

"He is, that," the boy said. He paused for a moment, then went on in an excited rush. "It's my birthday next week, you know. I'll be nine."

"Nine?" James replied. "Getting on in years, aren't you?"

The boy smiled, all innocent excitement and James sighed.

_God, what I wouldn't give to be a child again._

To be free of guilt, free of any worries beyond who would play the pirate in tomorrow's game. With a sarcastic chuckle, he recalled how he'd _always_ played the pirate in such games. The world was a cruelly ironic place.

"Is it good to be on the sea?" the boy asked suddenly.

"Yes," James answered. "Better than most things." It was true. He had always felt awkward on land in a way that had nothing to do with how he walked. The sea was in his blood, he knew that; was that why it felt so good to be sailing without the press of duty?

"Well, that's good!" the boy went on. "I want to go to sea someday." His dark eyes shone with enthusiasm. "My Da says I can join the Navy when I turn twelve!"

It was as if someone had shoved ice through his heart.

"What's your name, boy?" James asked, his throat tight.

"Benjamin Hunter," the boy piped.

"Benjamin," he murmured. He looked at the boy, so optimistic, full of dreams, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. "I hope to God you have better luck than I."

"Benjamin! Get out from there!" Mrs. Hunter exclaimed as she approached with a plate laden with food. "Let Mr. Adams be."

Benjamin slid off the bench and scurried away without a word.

"I hope he wasn't bothering you much," Mrs. Hunter said. "He's a curious rascal."

"Not at all," James said absently. "He seems like a bright boy."

"Aye, he is. And crafty, too. But never mind that. You just get to work on that plate," she said, and bustled away.

James hung his head; he suddenly wasn't at all hungry. The way Benjamin had looked at him, that glow of admiration…

_I don't deserve that. _

He had a sudden, familiar desire for a bottle of rum—_several_ bottles of rum. He forced the thought out of his head the moment it entered. He could not, _would not_, get drunk here. True, he had failed before, but Benjamin, he could tell, was going to be a powerful deterrent.

* * *

The study was as contradictory as it had always been, a rustic shambles incongruous with the proper opulence of the rest of the mansion, but as the most private room in the house, it was allowed to be unfashionable. No servants ever entered here, nor did any visiting dignitaries: the governor permitted only his family and closest friends in this room. Grace smiled as she took in the merry disarray of dusty books and mismatched chairs. She had so many fond memories of this room; studying and struggling with her lessons, countless hours being tutored by her uncle, who had trusted no one else with her education.

Grace turned, setting her glass on the table as she heard the door open. Her uncle entered and, closing the door swiftly behind him, turned to her with a smile.

"There you are, my girl!" he said with a laugh as she embraced him. "You look well, Grace. Lord, but it's still strange to call you that. And those clothes!"

"All necessary, Uncle, you know that," Grace said, picking up her glass and taking a seat in one of the armchairs. "I couldn't very well come as myself when I'm purported to be living in Boston."

"No, indeed," her uncle chuckled, pouring himself a glass of brandy. "Now," he said once he was seated. "Let us discuss this Spanish galleon sitting in my harbour."

Grace grinned. She had been bringing prizes into St. Kitts for nearly nine years, ever since she's convinced her uncle to commission her as a privateer. His standing as a royally appointed governor had been a blessing to her all her life, but the Letters of Marque had made her doubly thankful. Yet, while it made her secondary profession logistically easier, it also made it a tad morally disquieting.

_But I sleep at night, so it's well enough._

"It's clear you brought her in," the governor continued. "Yours tend to be missing the same sections of the taffrail each time. I don't know how you manage it.'

"You have John Fletcher to thank for that, Uncle Thomas," Grace said. "The man's a superb gunner. I pray I never lose him."

"Oh, I doubt you will," Thomas said. "But tell me, what the Devil did you do with the Spaniards this time?"

Grace stared down into her brandy with a sigh. "There's no ransom to be had from a merchant man and his daughter. We weren't far off from Spanish water as it was. We came as close as we could to the Florida coast and set them out in longboats with enough supplies for two months. More, if they're cunning with the rations."

"It was a good move, Grace," her uncle replied. "But you seem displeased with it."

She swirled the brandy in her glass, not looking up. "It's…hard, Uncle," she said. "When there are women on the ships I take. I know my men wouldn't be fool enough to harm them—I'd have them dancing from the yardarm in a trice, and they know that—but the women…God, some of them are barely more than girls! The fear I see on their faces…it makes it hard not to unmask and let them know I understand."

"It's a quandary you knew you'd have to face."

"Yes," Grace sighed.

_But that doesn't make the facing it any easier._

"My dear, this self-doubting despair does not suit you," Thomas said, suddenly cheerful. "This may lift your spirits."

Grace hardly had time to ponder his words when the door burst open, revealing a lanky, sandy-haired man in fine clothes, a roguish smile on his face.

"Isaac!" Grace exclaimed, nearly dropping her glass. "What on earth are you doing here?"

With a hearty laugh—no doubt at her expression of shock, Grace thought—Isaac Braddock swept into the room, closing the door behind him with a flourish.

"Well, dear cousin, I've been called away from Boston on business and I thought I'd visit home and my old haunts," he said, settling into a chair with the easy grace of confidence. Grace smirked into her brandy; "old haunts" for Isaac meant rowdy taverns, bawdy houses, and the bedrooms of at least two wealthy, young widows—he was a proper rake, her cousin.

"How long have you been here?" Grace asked.

"Ages, it seems," Isaac replied. "Constant sailing almost, from here to the Carolina colony, to Nassau, to Port Royal, back to bloody Carolina and back to here…six months or so now. I'm glad to have caught you in port. You've been gone eight months, I hear."

"Yes," Grace said. "Mostly around the coast of Spain, trying to catch an outgoing merchant or two, and a bit around the Mediterranean. Nothing much of note, really." She paused, frowning. "Except for a sudden storm near Tripoli of all places, or so I heard, and a bad one."

"Thank God we've had none of that here yet this year," the governor intoned.

"No weather storms, but plenty of the political persuasion," Isaac said. "You've come back at a tumultuous time, cousin. As usual."

Grace sat up straighter. "Has something happened?"

"I should say it has!" her uncle exclaimed. "Piracy is on a sudden rise, these past four months. I know you don't like to go for pirates, Grace, but you may have to."

"But surely the Navy…" Grace began, then froze.

James Norrington, the Scourge of Piracy, whose very name made the most hardened cutthroats quake with fear was on her ship, thoroughly beaten down and broken. The Naval forces in the Caribbean had never been large, despite please to the crown for more resources. Without James' leadership and no-quarter reputation to precede them, the Navy would be all but powerless.

"The Navy?" Thomas scoffed, taking her pause for confusion. "The Navy hasn't been able to do a damn thing since Commodore Norrington vanished half a year ago."

Grace schooled her features, feigning surprise. "Vanished? What do you mean vanished?"

"Just that," Isaac said. "He took off after some pirate nearly seven months past, and no one's seen hide nor hair of him since."

_That would be because I have him…Lord, but he could have me any day!_

She felt her face flush and ducked her head, hoping to hide it. It was hard to admit, but just the thought of his wild, green eyes and devil-may-care grin set her blood boiling. His voice alone—that rich timbre that played so deliciously along her spine—was enough to make her want to—

Grace froze that line of thought before it could go any further. It wouldn't do to let her imagination run away with itself. It wasn't like her to be so distracted, and especially not over some _man_. The conversation around her faded as her mind wandered, despite her attempts to stay focused. The truth of the matter was that James had her well and truly infatuated with him and it had been so long since her last romantic foray that she had quite forgotten how to handle it. It was bewildering—after that initial surge of desire, her feelings should have faded, not amplified, especially after coming upon him nearly comatose in the cargo hold. Had it been any other of her crew she would have been livid, but with James…she just hadn't been. The way he had looked at her that night, so sad and resigned to his broken existence, had sliced through any anger she may have felt and struck at that place in her heart that the sea hadn't managed to harden. She'd taken pity on him despite herself and helped him back to the forecastle—no mean feat considering his height—where he'd tumbled to the deck under his hammock, very nearly taking her down with him. He had waved her off with a slurred "No, let me lie," when she'd knelt down to help him up, but he'd caught hold of her hand as she made to rise.

"I'm sorry," he'd said. "I didn't want…I tried."

"I know," she had told him, and she had allowed herself to touch him, to stroke his hair away from his face. It had seemed to soothe him. "I know. Just get some sleep, James."

He had released her hand and closed his eyes, a strange, half-smile on his face. "Yes," he had murmured to himself. "…very pretty with her hair down."

Foolish as it was, Grace couldn't help but wonder if he'd meant her. She knew it had probably just been the rum talking and odds were he didn't even remember saying it, but…

"…I certainly hope so. He's been a thorn in our side for years, has Jack Sparrow."

Grace's head snapped up, her mind jerked back to the present; if anything could focus her, it was _that_.

"_What _about Jack Sparrow?" she asked, her hand tight around her now empty glass.

"You haven't been listening at all," Isaac said, and it was clear he found that odd. "He's the pirate Norrington's gone off after." He paused. "You don't…_know_ him, do you?"

"Unfortunately," Grace said, sneering. "What has he done this time?"

_Arrogant bastard! If I_ ever _get my hands on him…_

"It's been Hell to piece together, but from what I can tell, the lucky rascal escaped his own hanging under some _very _suspect circumstances," Isaac explained. "Apparently the local blacksmith was involved and now he's set to marry the governor's daughter or some such nonsense—the blacksmith, I mean, not Sparrow. But it seems—and this is what's most unusual about it all—that Norrington _let the man go_!"

Grace narrowed her eyes. "That doesn't seem right."

"No, no it doesn't," Isaac continued. "That's the business I was sent down for. The Company wants this mess sorted out. I'm afraid most of what I have is hearsay, but my report's been sent." Isaac sighed and rubbed his chin. "Still, hearsay or no, it's enough to justify arrest."

"How likely is it?" Thomas asked.

"I might as well arrest the blacksmith tomorrow," Isaac sighed. "And Norrington, wherever he is, should consider himself a fugitive. Commodore or no, his neck is for the noose, as well."

Grace tried to hid her unease, tapping her glass on the arm of the chair. Isaac was dreadfully loyal to his family, loyal to the point of breaking the law—he'd done it for her more times than she could count—but if it didn't involve his kin, he was the Company's man through and through. If he found out about James, she didn't think any amount of pleading could silence him.

"Isaac, why would the Company send you to sort this out?" Grace asked. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that business maneuver you mentioned in your letter, would it?"

"Business maneuver?" Thomas said, regarding his son quizzically. "What might that be? You've not spoken of it."

Isaac shifted in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "That, Father," he said, sounding highly irritated. "Is because I am entirely skeptical about the whole mad scheme."

Grace raised her eyebrows. "And what mad scheme would that be?"

"Some plan of Cutler's to increase trade on a massive scale," Isaac answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's impossible."

Thomas laughed. "Ah, yes, how is your friend Mr. Beckett?"

"He's a lord now, actually, as he'd tell you if he were present," Isaac replied with an air of amusement. "And he's reveling in it." He sighed, shaking his head. "He's a fine gentleman, but too ambitious by far, I've always thought. I fear sometimes the man won't stop until he's Glamis, Cawdor, and King."

"A gloomy comparison," Grace said, but for all it's dark connotations, it was an apt description. She had only met him once, and while he had liked him well enough, the meeting had left no doubt in her mind that Cutler Beckett lived for business. "He's not changed at all, it seems."

"No," Isaac said, suddenly serious. "No, he hasn't."

"Ah!" the governor exclaimed, looking at his pocket watch. "Nearly three…forgive me, Grace, Isaac, but I must be off." He stood and hurried to the door where he paused and looked back with a grin. "Grace, my dear, be sure my rogue of a son doesn't drink all my brandy, will you?"

The door clicked shut behind him and the moment it was closed Isaac nearly leapt out of his chair.

"My letter," he said. "You received my letter?"

"Yes, thank God!" Grace said. "It was nearly too late! The Company has got hold of one of my merchants; I'm sure of it."

Isaac swore, running a hand over his face. "What did you do with your cargo?"

"I recorded it in the prize report and had it all transferred to the Spanish ship. It was mostly wine and some textiles…none of the usual this time."

"And the crew didn't question it?" Isaac asked.

Grace resisted the urge to roll her eyes and groan; she would have thought that by now Isaac would have spent enough time at sea to know a few things.

"I'm _captain_, Isaac," she said. "If my men question my orders, I can have them whipped for as long as I please. Besides, they don't wonder where their coin comes from so long as they get it before the brothels open."

"Fine, fine," Isaac said, standing. "What really matters is that you aren't caught with cargo you shouldn't have."

"And the merchant?" Grace pressed. "I can't ignore him, Isaac. He _knows_ things."

Her cousin turned to look at her, his eyes worried. "How much?"

"Enough to bring everything crashing down," Grace admitted. "He's seen me return to the _Glory_, and that's enough to assume a connection, though I doubt he suspects Isabel and Edward to be the same person. Still, pressed as he is, he's sure to mention it."

"Which merchant is this?" Isaac asked.

"Henry Skinner from—"

"From Charleston," Isaac broke in. His posture relaxed and he smiled weakly. "I have charge of his case. I can help you out of this."

Grace sighed, letting her head fall back against the chair. "You know what I have to do, Isaac," she said, and even to her own ears her voice was anxious.

There was a quiet moment as they both contemplated her meaning. Grace had killed her share of men over the years, for various reasons. She didn't like it—in fact, she loathed it—but she could shut down, block off all emotion for the time it took to do the deed, but she paid a heavy price for it later.

"I can keep the Company men away, but you need a suitable place for it," Isaac said at last. "A tavern would be best, the worst you can find. Do you know any?"

"No," Grace said, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. "I'm unfamiliar with Port Royal, but I know someone who might know a place."

It was a long shot, really. She didn't expect James to know much about the seedier side of Port Royal, but he would at least be able to tell her the respectable places, the places to avoid. And she needed to see him—if there was soon to be a price on his head, it was only right he be warned.

"I'd best go," she said, standing. "It could take some time to find him."

Isaac nodded, then pulled her into a tight embrace.

"I wouldn't want your life for the world, cousin," he said. "You never have a day of peace, it seems. Are you sure you aren't ready to come to Boston in truth? You would get on so well with Anna."

Grace sighed, thinking of the countless cold nights spent in misery and her dream—her foolish, little girl' dream that she just couldn't forget—that one day she would have a home, a husband…and children. The thought was more painful than any cold night.

"Not yet," she said with a slight smile. "Boston isn't ready."

"No, I suppose not," Isaac chuckled, releasing her. "Good luck finding your friend."

She nodded and turned towards to door, her mind already occupied with other things. She would have to go down to the docks, and probably the _Mad Fiddler_, before she even hoped to begin searching for James; if anyone knew where he might have gone, Cromley would.

"Grace?" Isaac said suddenly, and she paused, looking back at him. He was leaning against a chair and frowning in the way he did when he was uncomfortable and trying not to show it. "Do you know anything about…about Davy Jones?"

"As much as any sailor," Grace said, confused at the strangeness of his question and the troubled tone of his voice. "Why do you ask?"

"Is he real, do you think?" Isaac pressed, and now his unease was apparent. "A man without a heart—in the most literal sense—it can't be possible."

"_El Diablo del Mar_," Grace murmured, feeling a chill at the very thought. "All sailors fear the sight of the _Flying Dutchman_, Isaac. And rightly so."

"Are you saying it's real?" Isaac queried and there was something almost frantic in his tone now. "The Kraken and the Dead Man's Chest? One hundred years of service, all of it?"

"Isaac, what's this about?" Grace asked. "You've never had any interest in these things before."

He smiled and shook his head, all traces of fear gone. "It's nothing," he said. "I just find myself more inclined to believe in things lately. Go on…I didn't mean to keep you."

Grace didn't consider that a satisfactory answer, but she left the room all the same—there was no use trying to ferret out the reason behind her cousin's unusual questions. There was a reason, of that she was sure, but she had more pressing matters to attend to than Isaac's newfound superstition.


	5. No Quarter Given

A/N:

* * *

**Chapter Five: No Quarter Given**

* * *

It was the knocking that woke him. He sat up, blinking owlishly in the afternoon light and groaned. He'd gone to bed in his boots again, it seemed, but he felt marginally well all things considered.

The knocking continued.

"I'm coming, damn your eyes!" James growled as he stumbled out of bed, shaking the fog of exhaustion from his thoughts. He hadn't been sleeping much lately, and what rest he did manage to steal now and then wasn't exactly restful. He wrenched the door open and started at the sight of a lovely, if timid looking, young woman in a pale pink dress. Her head, covered with a plain, linen cap, was bowed and she stared rather fixedly at the package in her arms. James opened his mouth to ask her purpose in his doorway, but she looked up and the words froze on his tongue.

Grace looked entirely different. She looked…female and…pretty. He berated himself for the thought, but there was no denying it—his captain was decidedly easy on the eyes.

_And no rum to blame it on this time._

"Going to let me in or must I wait until you are through appraising my figure?" she asked, sounding highly amused.

James glowered, mostly to hide his embarrassment, and stepped back to let her pass. Was it his imagination or had her smirk been a bit _too_ sly? Grace set her package on the table and turned to look at him, removing her cap.

"You look…sober, James," she said, smiling.

He laughed—a short, derisive bark—slouching against the wall, arms crossed. "For the time being."

It was a truthful, if bitterly sarcastic, response. He still drank at night, though never at the _Star and Compass_ and only enough to make him a bit unsteady. He was glad she had noticed, though. It was important that she knew he was trying. She seemed to genuinely care for him in some way, at least a little, and it felt good. It felt good to think that, just maybe, someone gave a damn. It felt good to know that lovely smile had been for him.

_Christ, man! Waxing maudlin when sober, now, are you?_

"I assume there's some reason for this visit, Captain?" he asked.

"There is, indeed," Grace said, taking a seat at the table. "Several reasons, really. Come sit down, James."

Just as he made to move towards the table, a young voice called from outside in the hall.

"Ah…Mr. Adams?" he heard Ben say. "I was told to bring this tea up for your friend, if she wants it, but if I open the door I'll drop it."

"Well," James said with a slight smile. "Would you care for a cup of tea, Captain?"

Grace seemed taken aback and an oddly conflicted look passed over her face.

"Yes," she said after a moment. "Yes, he took all the trouble to bring it up."

James turned and opened the door once again. Ben inched into the room, both hands clasping a saucer with the teacup balanced somewhat precariously on top. He moved with slow, small steps, hardly seeming to breathe, his face set in a comical scowl of concentration until the saucer and cup were placed safely n the table.

"There you are, Miss!" he said, grinning. "I didn't spill a drop, did I?"

"No, you did very well," Grace said and there was a tone in her voice that James had never heard before. There was something soft about it, a gentleness he hadn't thought possible.

"Mr. Adams! I've been meaning to show you!" Ben exclaimed suddenly, darting to the other side of the table as James sat down. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a compass, of all things, and flipped it open. "When you have a moment, would you teach me what all these numbers mean?"

_I'm not the best person to ask about navigation._

James pushed the guilty though aside and managed a smile for the boy's sake.

"Tomorrow, perhaps," he said. "May I see it?"

Benjamin eagerly handed him the compass and scurried around behind him to look over his shoulder.

"Does it work proper, Mr. Adams?" he asked.

"It's in perfect order," James answered, snapping it shut and placing it in Ben's hands. "Where did you get it?"

"It was a birthday gift," Benjamin proclaimed proudly. "My Ma said it came last week, but she didn't give it to me until last night." He glanced at Grace, grinning broadly. "It was my birthday yesterday, you see. I'm nine, now!"

"Nine? Really?" Grace said, picking up her tea. "Congratulations. I turn twenty-eight myself in a few weeks."

"Who sent it to you, Ben?" James asked. A compass was an odd gift for an innkeeper's son, his interest in the sea notwithstanding.

"I don't know," Ben shrugged. "Ma claims he's my uncle, but I don't really know. I've never met him. He always just signs his cards "J. M. B.""

He stared at the compass happily for a moment, before tucking it back in his pocket. "I'll be off now," he said, and turned to Grace with a smile. "I hope you enjoy your tea, miss, and have a very nice birthday of your own!"

Grace only smiled in response, a strangely sad smile, James noticed. Her behaviour since Ben's arrival had been unusual—it wasn't like her to be so demure, but he suspected it was nothing more than an act. She was in disguise, after all.

_But why the sadness?_

"He seems fond of you," she said once Ben had gone.

"I can't think why," James said, and truly he couldn't think why. What could the boy possibly see in him? The drink-addled wreck of a Navy officer was no one for a young boy to admire.

Grace snorted derisively. "You discredit yourself. Now, before you snap a self-deprecating retort at me for that, my reason for being her is actually very important."

The bashful, girlish demeanor was gone—this was the Grace he was used to. She looked like a fetching housemaid, yes, but skirts did not undermine her authority; the opposition of image and reality was…intriguing.

James smirked at the thought and leaned back in his chair, gesturing for her to continue.

"It seems," Grace said, folding her hands flat on the table in front of her. "That we must make a bit of a side trip before we dock at Tortuga. I thought it best to inform you, since that is your intended destination."

_As if I'd forgotten._

He scowled. Even after the nearly four months since his court-martial, he still wanted it. Tortuga held a promise for him, a promise of apathy, anonymity, and oblivion. Sweet, numbing oblivion.

"And where is it we're going?" he asked.

"I've some business to see to in Port Royal."

For a moment it was as if everything stopped and something like panic seized him. Port Royal…how could he show his face there? People _knew_ him there. They would wonder, they would stare, but worst of all he knew there was nothing he could do. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't halt his decline into depravity. He wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to stop it.

"Why exactly does this concern me?" he asked, taking care to keep his tone irreverent.

Grace leaned forward, holding his gaze with that deadpan stare of hers. Her eyes were blue. A slate grey and North Sea blue. Stormy colours. He had never noticed before.

"I need information," she said. "I need the name of the most crude, disreputable tavern in that town, and how to get there."

Had she not looked and sounded to earnest, James would have laughed; he found it amusing as it was. The question was so unexpected it was nearly comical.

"And you think I can help you with that?" he asked, leaning forward as well, matching her stare for stare.

A grin tugged at Grace's lips, and not a particularly pleasant one. Something flashed in her eyes; a wicked spark of amusement.

"Oh, yes," she said. She smirked at him for a moment more, then straightened. ""I think you can help me a great deal, Mr. Norrington."

Silence. A suspended moment where all he felt was shock. Across the table, Grace was smiling at him, that irritating, congenial grin she'd shown him his first day aboard.

_You sly devil of a woman!_

James slumped back in his chair with a sigh. "How long have you known?"

Grace's expression was serious now. She tugged a tattered parchment out from under the string that bound her package and tossed it down in front of him. James picked it up and unfolded it…and threw it down after one glance. It was the docket for the _Glory_, and there at the end of the list, in a sloppy, but perfectly legible hand, was scrawled the name "James Norrington". She had known all along.

"James," he heard Grace say. "The tavern…I need to know."

"You knew who I was the entire voyage and yet you said nothing," James said, a twinge of anger beginning to tighten his chest. "And now when you need something from me you play _this_." He smacked the parchment where it lay on the table. "This hidden card. A clever extortion, Captain."

Grace frowned, and much to his surprise, James thought he saw hurt flash across her face.

"That was not my intent," she said, looking away from him. "I had hoped you would simply tell me. I don't want to blackmail a friend, but if I must then so be it."

_Friend?_

Whatever James had thought to say fled his mind. That Grace considered him a friend was something that had never occurred to him. A casual companion, just a person to talk to, yes, but a friend? Grace still hadn't looked at him and the silence between them was heavy. Did she truly consider him a friend? The word meant so much more to him now than it had before. To the Commodore, a friend had meant a fellow officer, a game of chess, a man who shared his interests. To James, to the derelict he was now, a friend was a strong arm to keep him on his feet and a cool hand on his forehead, someone who cared enough, beyond all reason, to help him. It meant there was at least one person in the world who would be willing to sew his hammock one day, and that was a deeper, more desperate thing than any bond made over a chessboard.

"The _Black Dogg_," he began, studying the knots in the wood of the table. "At the east end of Haming Street has a certain reputation for violence. It's well deserved."

Grace looked up and she didn't smile as James had expected. She only nodded and murmured "Thank you". Sitting there as she was, bound up in folds of rose-coloured cotton, it was hard to believe she would even touch a pistol, much less cock it back and hold it to a man's chest. But if there was anything he had learned from his catastrophic romantic failure, it was that appearances could not be trusted, especially with women.

"There's something else," Grace said, leaning forward on the table once more. "About you."

James looked up from his examination of the table with a frown. "About me?"

"Yes," Grace sighed. She looked worried and that was unusual in someone as stoic as she normally was. "I have…ways of obtaining information from inside the East India Company," she continued. "And it seems your neck is destined for the noose."

"What for?" James asked, his tone cynical. Set to hang…it was almost humorous. Though for having just been told he was marked for death, he was feeling remarkably calm.

"Conspiring to free a convicted man," Grace answered.

James closed his eyes and bowed his head. So _this_ was to be his reward for his moment of weakness, for following his instinct instead of his intellect. Jack Sparrow may be a halfway decent man, a point he conceded only very grudgingly, but that one day, one bloody day's head start, had had no bearing on the pirate's supposed goodness. It had been a selfish, sudden decision born out of the desire to give one last thing to the woman who didn't love him. The memories of that day were still painfully sharp—to alive and too aching to be burned out with saccharine, sludgy alcohol. The realization that he was unloved, nothing more than a means to an end, was a hard blow to bear, and one that struck far deeper than pride. He had needed that one day to try to pull himself together.

_And a fine job I did_.

"In light of that," he heard his captain say. "I think it would be best if you rid yourself of that uniform…unless, of course, you _want_ to be captured."

Their eyes met and Grace didn't need to ask—her eyes asked the question well enough. Did he want to die? It was frightening how much of him screamed "yes". The noose would bring the narcosis that no about of rum could achieve—no more regrets, no more nightmares, no more guilt. Death would be welcome, a deserving sentence for his actions…or a recreant escape from comeuppance, an easy way out? Death was no penance when compared with what he was falling into. Or did any of it matter at all? Did he truly care what became of him? The answer this time was a resounding "no".

_I need a drink_.

"Once I _rid myself of this uniform_," James said. "What do you propose I do? Go about my business in the nude?"

Grace's mouth quirked into an impish grin that more than hinted at ribald thoughts. "As…_entertaining _as that would be," she said, eyeing him in a way that made something dark and primal stir in the pit of his stomach. "I took the liberty of providing clothes for you." She stood and opened the package she had brought, pulling back the paper to reveal a pair of breeches, a shirt, and a rather fine looking black waistcoat. "Put these on. I need to be sure they fit."

James had already shrugged off his coat and begun unbuttoning his now-shabby waistcoat when he realized Grace seemed to have no intention of leaving the room. She was standing there, arms crossed, not even bothering to _pretend_ to acknowledge that the situation was potentially awkward.

"You're just going to watch, are you?" he growled, continuing stubbornly with the buttons.

"I _will_ turn around, James," Grace said, raising her chin ever so slightly. "But it will be when I choose."

_Bloody presumptuous woman_.

Ingrained rules of propriety warred with his newfound indifference for such things as he finished with the buttons and tossed the waistcoat aside. This went against everything he had ever been taught regarding his personal conduct; it was immoral to undress in front of a lady. Grace, though, hardly qualified as a lady—no woman who went about most of the time in breeches did. He kicked his boots off his feet. She was brash and tough; lacing her up in skirts and petticoats wouldn't change her. He tugged his shirt off over his head.

He could feel Grace's eyes on him as keenly as if she were touching him. The nerve of the woman! If she hadn't averted her eyes yet, she wasn't likely to, and that just wasn't acceptable. He looked up at her…and knew instantly it had been a mistake.

Grace hadn't moved. In fact, she stood so still it was hard to tell she was breathing, but James could see the tension in her shoulders, in her hands. She licked her lips, just a little, a nervous gesture, but he was riveted. The low whispers of attraction in the back of his mind burst to the forefront in a heady rush of sheer avarice. It was lascivious, a purely animal hunger that he had bottled up and beaten into submission with an iron will. He found himself wondering, and wondering vividly, what it would be like to kiss her. Would she fight him and make it a battle of wills? Would she submit with cold acceptance only to berate him afterwards? Or would she match him and return the gesture? If he were certain it would be the latter—

_Stop this. Stop it now._

He dropped his gaze and cleared his throat, the harsh sound seeming more grating in the tense silence. "Do you _mind_?" he snapped; his moment of rapacity had distinctly soured his mood. Grace turned away from him sharply, her skirts swirling around her feet. James continued changing as quickly as he could. What was the matter with him? He wasn't drunk, and he hadn't been too long in the sun, nor had he been concussed recently that he could recall. Why, then, had he just wanted to tumble his captain?

_Because she's an attractive woman whose company you enjoy and you're lonely._

He tried to beat the thought down, but it was true. Grace was a comely woman who cut a fine figure in breeches—a fact he had previously noted and henceforth tried his damndest to deny. She was well educated and had a quick mind, which made conversing with her a pleasure and she had been kind to him, treating him with dignity despite his rudeness and routine inebriation. And he was lonely, almost painfully so, though if that loneliness had been of the flesh alone he would have fallen in with some two-penny whore long ago, but it was more than that. It was always more than that—with him, nothing was ever simple. Try as he might, he couldn't keep his emotions from tying themselves up in everything.

"Well, what do you think?" he said, tightening the belt around his waist.

Grace turned to face him and laughed. "You make a fine looking ruffian, provided you don't shave that beard," she said. "Trim it if you like, but don't get rid of it."

James scratched his chin somewhat self-consciously. He'd never gone so long without a shave in his life and he'd been half intending to find a barber to remedy the situation.

"I suppose the worse I look the less recognizable I am," he remarked with only a touch of bitterness.

"Yes, but I think it suits you, besides," Grace said, looking him up and down in much the same manner as a tailor. "These fit better than I expected. Thank God Daniel was near your height."

"Daniel?" James asked, and Grace froze; clearly it was a name she hadn't meant to mention. Her lips pressed together in a firm line and she began abruptly gathering up his old clothes.

"He was my captain," she replied, her words stiff and clipped. "And my abductor."

"Abductor?" James exclaimed, surprised. "With all due respect, Captain, why would anyone wish to abduct you?"

Grace paused, a pensive and slightly rueful look on her face. "I was not always the person I am," she answered haltingly. "There was a heady ransom to be had for me in those days."

James had far more questions begging to be asked, but he let the matter rest. The emotion in Grace's voice was something he was all too familiar with; he understood regret and mourning for the loss of happier times. For some reason, the revelation that she hadn't been born to the life she led was comforting. They were similar spirits, she and he, more so than he had realized.

"Wait," he said, jerking out of his reverie as Grace reached for his coat. He picked it up, running his thumbs over the fraying brocade. "I'm keeping this."

"Are you certain?" Grace asked. "A Navy post-captain's coat is rather distinctive."

"Any man may steal a coat," James replied gruffly. He would never admit, not even to himself, that he couldn't completely turn his back on who he had been. It was his way: he had to have something, some remnant to cling to, even if it caused him nothing but pain. He was a glutton for punishment and always had been; he had kept Elizabeth's last letter to him locked in his desk aboard the _Dauntless_ for the same reason.

Grace set his uniform clothes on the table and began wrapping them up in the paper. "All right," she said. "But the rest will be burned."

"Good" James managed to bite out, pulling his coat up over his shoulders.

Finished with the package, Grace placed her cap on her head, tucking her hair neatly underneath. She picked up the bundle and slipped the docket back under the string.

"We set sail in ten days, James," she said, moving towards the door. "I expect to see you aboard."

"Aye, Captain," James replied, and with just a hint of a parting smile, Grace slipped out the door.

James sighed and fell back onto his bed, where he lay staring up at the ceiling, thoughts whirling through his head in a mad, anarchical maelstrom. Just when he thought things were leveling out, just when it seemed his world was about to cease its topsy-turvy rotation, chance gave the globe another spin. His identity was known, he was doomed to dance the hempen jig, he was being forced to return to the one place in the Caribbean he wanted most to avoid, and to top it all off, he appeared to be developing a strong carnal interest in his captain.

_I really need a drink._

* * *

The sunlight streaming through the high, wide windows warmed her back as she knelt on the stone floor, hands gloved in black lace resting clasped on the pew in front of her. The morning's service had long since ended and the church was empty save for the priest, and no priest would disturb a woman in prayer—most certainly not one dressed for mourning.

Grace bowed her head, fighting hard against the press of tears; the black habit may have been a disguise, but the prayer was sincere. Normally, she prayed for the safety of her men who lived and the souls of those she had lost, but not today. Today she prayed for herself, and she prayed for strength.

It had shaken her, going to the _Star and Compass_ during the daylight hours. It was all too perfect, James staying at that particular inn and at Cromley's recommendation…but of course Cromley didn't know. None of the crew did…

…_The rain fell hard and close, plastering her hair against her face as she struggled up the short ladder. She berated herself that she could climb to the main topgallant in a full gale with less trouble, but her limbs still shook. When she reached the top, she found herself frozen again, staring numbly at the rickety door with its foggy window panes. Should she knock or simply enter? Even as she stood there wondering and stretched out her hand towards the door, a heavily accented voice came from within._

"_Come in, niña. I don' bite." _

_Steeling her resolve, Grace pushed the door open with her outstretched hand and entered. The room was a shambles of tables, chairs and a disarray of unrelated, arcane-seeming objects, a snake or two slinking about in the clutter. A swaying labyrinth of jars, bottles, and dried plants hung suspended from the low rafters and at the center of all this strangeness was the witch-woman herself. Tia Dalma, the dock men had called her. She wore an old, frayed dress, inexpertly embellished with lace and other trinkets, chicken feathers entwined in her dark tangle of hair. An array of tiny black dots encircled her kohl-lined eyes and her lips were tinted black, as though she had smeared kohl on them as well. She smiled, and despite the thick, pressing heat, Grace shivered._

"_I—I was told you could help me," Grace said, for once not caring that her voice trembled. _

"_Mayehbe I do, an' mayehbe I don'," the witch-woman said, moving towards her with a slow, swaying step. She stopped and stared at Grace with her piercing, black eyes, scrutinizing, delving. _

"_You are not a woman dat mayehks a livin' wit sellin' her skirt," she said. "I know dis about you, niña. You a captain, a lady for de sea. Why do you come?"_

_From the haunting way the witch-woman looked at her, Grace knew the question. _

"_I can't keep it," she answered; it was no more than a hoarse whisper. _

"_So you come to me to kill him like de whores do, hmm?"_

_It was so sharp and so harsh and so painfully true. Grace felt hot tears spill down her cheeks and her arms instinctively tightened around her belly, which hadn't even begun to round. The witch-woman led her to a chair, all the while stroking Grace's hair and crooning indistinct words that were at once eerie and comforting. _

"_You don' want to kill de boy, niña," she said. "Dat is not your way."_

"_The boy?" Grace asked, looking up. "You know it's a boy?"_

"_Yeahs," the witch-woman said, and she lay a hand on Grace's abdomen. "Him goin' be a good, strong boy dat love de sea." She grinned. "Like you. Like his fahdda." _

"_What do I do?" Grace whispered. She couldn't go through with it, not now. She already knew what his name was. _

_The witch-woman leaned forward, black-stained lips pulled back in a leer to show black-stained teeth. "Mayek payment, niña, an' I tell you." _

Grace drew a shaky breath, resting her head against her hands. It had all fallen out as Tia Dalma had said it would—Abigail Hunter had lost her child at precisely the right time to take Grace's. For the price of a tawdry ring she had bought her son a good life.

_My Benjamin_.

It had hurt her, cut her down to the core of her being, giving him up. She had wanted so desperately to keep him with her; the way she had clung to him, weeping, when Isaac had come to take him away…but even in her half-mad sorrow, she had known it couldn't be. A ship was no place to raise a child and a captain had no time for it. Still, as glad as she was that Benjamin was healthy and happy, she couldn't stamp out the bitter jealousy she felt at the thought of another woman holding _her_ son. She should be the one to raise him, teach him, love him, and all the things a mother is meant to do for her child.

Grace had been shocked to see him at the inn. Nine years old already! He was growing up fine, with no trace of his father in him that she could see, and very little of herself. But her grandfather, her cousins—the resemblance was striking! Would people wonder as he grew older? Would they take notice of his wild, black hair and dark, laughing eyes and realize it didn't follow either side? Would he question it himself and seek out the truth, or live his life believing himself a Scotsman? There were so many maybes and what-if's but Grace knew one thing for certain—her son would go to sea. She hadn't missed the look of sheer joy on his face when he spoke of sailing or the open adoration in his eyes when he looked at James. It had taken all her resolve not to shake him and scream that it had been her—the spyglass, the maps, the toy ships, the compass, all of it.

Grace bit down on her lip in an attempt to stem the tears blurring her sight. There were so many thoughts and feelings knotted up inside her that she felt her heart would burst from trying to contain it. She had held this secret for nine years with no one else but Isaac and her uncle knowing, but now the need to talk, to tell someone was nearly overpowering. Not for the first time, she wished the Church of England held with confession.

Someone placed a hand on her shoulder and she jumped, hastily wiping tears from her eyes; she'd forgotten Isaac was coming to meet her.

"Is something wrong?" he asked as she rose and seated herself in the pew.

"No," Grace lied, summoning a half-hearted smile that she hoped looked reassuring. "Just reminiscing."

Isaac didn't press her, but the look he gave her made it clear he had seen straight through her attempted ruse.

"I take it you have what we need," he said, sitting down beside her. He took her hand and gave it a slight squeeze—he always had a way of comforting her, even when she denied needing it. Grace took a deep breath.

"Tell Skinner he will meet Mr. Hart at the _Black Dogg_ tavern at the east end of Haming Street," she said. "He is to look for a man in a Navy coat."


	6. Uncharted Seas

**A/N:** I have a goal, and my goal is to finish not only this story, but its sequel "Flying False Colors" by Christmas! I think I can pull it off, since there are maybe only 3 chapters left in this one. After that…who knows? I have some vague aspirations to take Grace and her story into a world of my own creation, and even though James can't come along, maybe a distant relation of his not owned by the Mouse will stow away…

* * *

**The Smuggler and the Scoundrel**

**Chapter Seven: Uncharted Seas**

* * *

The quiet that descended was thick and suspended. James didn't dare move. Grace stood a few feet away from him, head bowed and arms hanging limp at her sides. The silence and the stillness hung over them like a thick night fog until, in a sudden swirl of blood-red skirts that were a little too blood-red at the hem, Grace tucked her pistols into her sash and snatched James by the arm, hauling him towards the lamp-lit street.

"Walk with me," she hissed. "Like a proper escort, please."

"What the Devil just happened?" James shot back.

"Not now," Grace snarled, gripping his arm. He could feel her nails like cat claws through his coat, but he wouldn't be placated so easily. Not this time.

They broke from the gloom into the carnival of the street and suddenly Grace had melded into him, her body pressed tight to his, and for a brief second James was sure that every inch of his skin had caught fire.

"Play along," Grace whispered, her breath a warm shiver against his neck. He fought the grin he felt threatening at the corners of his mouth as he slid a possessive arm around her waist. She wanted him to play along, he would bloody well play along!

"You shot a man back there," he murmured into her hair. She smelled of lavender and the ocean.

"_Ai, que bo_," Grace grumbled, steering him down the street. "There's a boat waiting on the beach."

"That's hardly answer."

Her grip tightened. "It's the answer I gave you."

James recognized the order and the steel in that voice, but underneath it he heard a slight trembling that told him far more than Grace would have ever admitted. There must have been a reason for her to have murdered that man. Then again, it hadn't been Grace who had pulled the trigger, it had been this wild creature in red, this Señora Isabel. But how much of one was the other? And the truly pressing question, why had Skinner come after _him_?

Grace pulled him into the shadows between two brothels and separated herself from him, gathering her skirts up in her hands and breaking into a run. James followed, crashing through the flat, heavy fronds of the surrounding vegetation and skidding on loose stones until the two of them broke out onto the beach.

"Push the boat off!" Grace called back as she clambered in and grabbed hold of the oars. James never broke his stride as his hands met the rough wood and with a grating scrape against the stony beach, the longboat slipped out into the harbor.

The only sounds were the groaning of the oars and the splashing of the sea while James stared at the woman seated across from him. His mind was a whirl of questions without answers, and had been since he had stumbled onto her ship. Grace had never been clear and honest with him, not once, but no more. This was the end of it.

"What happened back there?" He hadn't meant for it to sound quite so stern.

"I know you have questions, James," Grace said. She didn't look at him.

"Yes, _Captain_, I have questions," he cut in, feeling a new and unfamiliar strength prowling in the back of his voice. "Let us begin with the man you have just murdered, shall we?"

Grace continued to study the space near his feet. "It was—"

"Necessary, I suppose?" James bit in. "Who was he?"

"James—"

"Who was he?"

Grace kept rowing, her breath coming in strangled gasps as the oars clunked and creaked.

"You're wearing stays, aren't you?" James asked.

"I fail to see why it matters to you, but yes."

"Shouldn't you be having a fainting spell about now, then?"

_Bitter. Too bitter._

Grace snorted. "It's an uncomfortable inconvenience, but hardly threatening. He was a merchant."

"A merchant?"

"Henry Skinner."

"And whatever did he do to you that warranted being murdered in a filthy back alley?"

"Nothing I care to explain to you," Grace answered coolly.

"But I'd so relish the explanation."

"It doesn't concern you."

The anger that had been moldering in the back of his mind sparked and caught fire. "It doesn't concern me?" James snarled." The man was turning me in for payment!"

"He told you that?" Grace asked. She appeared amused. "Another foolish blunder. Catch hold of that rope, James."

They had reached the ship. James did as he was ordered, still seething quietly. Grace had been in partnership with Skinner over his head, he was damn near sure of that now.

_Then why go to the trouble of murdering him to save my life?_

Grace scrambled up the rungs with surprising agility considering her attire; she was clearly no stranger to scaling a ship in woman's weeds. James followed and the moment his boots hit the boards he was ready to speak, to lay out his demands, but Grace slammed the intent back into his throat with a look that could have frozen beer.

"If you have any impertinent questions to ask me, they will be addressed in my quarters," she said and marched away. Once again, James found himself tagging along in her wake. His feelings of outrage had in no way been diminished by the suggestion of being allowed to question her. He doubted she would grant him the courtesy of a truthful answer.

James had never been inside Grace's quarters. They were smaller than his own aboard the _Dauntless_ had been, and much more spartan. There was nothing more than a desk and a small chest of drawers in the way of furnishing, and the bunk was neatly built into the wall beneath the port window.

"You may ask me anything you like in a moment, James," Grace said just as James stepped forward to speak. "There is a bottle of wine in the chest of drawers. I would like you to pour us each a healthy glass, if you please."

He felt a twinge of apprehension. "Are you certain, Captain?"

"Quite certain."

They turned their backs on each other and James began rifling through the drawers. He tried to grip the righteous rage that had been fueling him, but it was trickling away leaving bewilderment in its place. It was very unlike Grace to offer him a drink…unless, of course, there was something she wanted from him. She had plied him once before, and tonight had been a grisly reminder of just what she was willing to do to achieve what she felt was necessary.

_I must not drink. Or I must drink only a little._

Even as the thought crossed his mind, his fingers closed around the cool, seductive smoothness of the wine bottle. He had not tasted wine since before Sparrow, and he had had so little rum today. As if that realization were an order, he felt his hands begin to tremble. The bottle chattered against the rims of the glasses as he poured. He turned, drinks in hand, and nearly dropped them at the sight that met his eyes.

Grace was indecent. She was clad only in her shift, which James numbly supposed was clothed in the strictest sense of the word, but it was a shocking sight nonetheless. She plucked her glass from his hand with a stiff "Thank you" and leaned against her desk. James found himself unduly fascinated by the way the light played in her hair; she looked so different with it twisted up the way it was, revealing the graceful line of her neck. There was an arrogance in the way she carried herself, a challenge that he wanted very much to meet.

"Well, James," she said. "You had questions for me."

James felt rather like he had when, as a midshipman, he had been struck in the head by the boom. His thoughts were a fog and the left shoulder of Grace's shift was slipping a little. He sipped at his wine, resisting the urge to throw it back in one swallow. After the months of sickly sweet rum, it was like the nectar of the Gods, but he wanted answers more than he wanted the drink. He summoned all the resolve he still possessed and forced his gaze away from the soft, hinting shadows above his captain's neckline.

"Why did you kill Henry Skinner?" he managed at last.

"I would have thought that obvious, James," Grace replied. "He had a pistol on you, after all."

James felt a flicker of returning anger that oddly fueled his mad and increasing desire to tug those shift laces open. "He intended to turn me in. For the bounty."

Grace merely nodded. "I daresay he did."

"And what was to be your share of it?" James snapped. Her serene belligerence was doing nothing to quiet the wild thoughts dancing lewdly in his mind's eye of just how he would break that unruffled mask of hers. What would he find beneath it? "How much was it worth to ferry me here?"

"I beg your pardon?" Grace said, her voice still cool despite the sudden rigidity in her posture.

"He knew me!"

"No. He did not."

A stony silence followed her soft words. James was at a loss, but in his confusion he thought he saw regret fleet over Grace's expression. She sighed, sipping from her glass before she spoke.

"I have manipulated you for my own purpose, James, and for that I am profoundly sorry," she said, meeting his eyes. "But it was not for the reason you seem to think. I have no wish to see you on the gallows."

"Then why did that man seem to know me?" James pressed.

"Because I led him to believe that you were someone else," Grace answered. "He was under the impression that you were the smuggler he had been doing business with for the past two years."

James was on the verge of another question when it came back to him—_You were a lovely client…so discreet._

"You're the smuggler," he said.

"I am the smuggler," Grace said with a nod. "Skinner was just one of several clients who have made arrangements with Isabel Hart for access to her husband's services."

It all fell into place like the last moves of a well played chess game. He, James, had been nothing but a decoy, an actor for this "Mr. Hart" who did not exist, and he wasn't pleased by it.

"Why use me?" he asked, keeping his tone even.

"Skinner was not a clever man, but he was a sneak," Grace said. Some of the tension had eased out of her shoulders at his seemingly calm response. "I couldn't risk using one of my men when there was the chance that he would recognize him. You, he had never seen. It was the safer choice."

"Safer for you, perhaps," James retorted, his irritation with her and the unacceptable effect she was having on him sharpening his voice. "I, meanwhile, had a pistol to my head while you skulked in the shadows, playing cloak and dagger games! There's a price on my head, in case you've forgotten."

"Do you honestly think I wasn't watching you from the moment you entered the tavern?" Grace snapped back, standing. "I would never have allowed him to harm you."

James scowled. "You could have informed me beforehand."

"And you would have followed my plan, would you? Hm?"

James began a defiant 'yes', but the memory of the serpentine calculation in Grace's eyes through the smoke from her pistol brought him up short.

"I could never have trusted you with this, James," she continued, and her voice had a strained, painful quality. "You're no murderer. You're a better man than that."

She meant it as a kindness, James knew, but it stung. 'A better man'. He was always too noble, too good, too proper; always the 'better man'. He drained his glass.

"And I suppose that's a poor quality in your eyes, is it?" he sneered, letting his rage mingle headily with the lurid heat in his veins as he advanced on her. "You with your _pragmatism_ and your _piracy_."

Grace drew herself up, the storm in her eyes crashing and tangling with his. "I had no choice."

"There is always a choice!" James snarled.

"What would you have had me do?" Grace snarled back, their faces mere inches apart. "Pressgang him? Buy his silence? Or perhaps I should have gently requested that he not hand me over to the East India Company, and by the good grace of man's compassion, he would have held his tongue! _All_ unreliable, James! Only a dead man tells no tales."

James felt the grimace on his face and he could taste the venom boiling up from the blackest depths of himself, but he spat it out at her without pause. "And you sleep like a babe on that lie, don't you?"

The pause was brief but sharp as a sword, and then Grace's fist collided soundly with his jaw. It was a knock well worthy of any tavern brawl and James reeled back. For the space of a blink, he was shocked out of his rage, but Grace's blow had broken the door to the dangerous thing he had kept under brocaded lock and key for so very long. He moved on her, not knowing what he intended, acting purely on the rush of the instant. One hand caught the back of her neck, the other gripped her wrist and he crushed her lips in a hard, bruising kiss.

Her lips were rough from sun and salt, but they were warm and tasted hauntingly of wine and spices. His hand slipped from her neck to her back, fingers trailing over long, smooth hollows that were unmistakable lash scars. How far down her back did they reach? What unknown territories hid beneath the teasing cotton, waiting to be charted? He froze as he felt his fingers sliding the shift from her shoulders and with an iron-willed effort, he wrenched himself away from her.

_What in God's name is wrong with me?_

They stared at each other as though they had never met—for all their camaraderie, perhaps they never had until this moment. Grace was gasping, her pretty, red mouth surprised and swollen by his assault. She licked her lips, not nervously as before, but slow and almost savoring. James felt his breath catch harshly in his throat.

_Christ, I need a drink. I need her. _

He strangled that thought. Or tried to. He couldn't ignore the prowling and ravenous part of himself that was now biting at the bars, snarling to be set free _right bloody now_.

"I…I apologize," he managed at last and turned to leave.

"No!"

He was jerked to a halt by Grace's hand on his arm as she pulled him back, placing herself firmly in his path of escape. There was a light in her eyes that made the pit of his stomach curl in anticipation.

"What do you mean 'no'?" James asked, doing his damndest to ignore the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the frantic staccato pounding against his ribs.

"I mean, no, you are not leaving my cabin," Grace said, and her voice had taken on a low softness that whispered along his skin. "I've waited far too long for this."

James bit down on the gut-wrenching howl of primal triumph that wracked his body at those words, bit down hard. "I'm sorry, Captain. I should have waited for you to dismiss me," he said. Despite his desperate attempt at propriety, his words came out strangled and husky.

Grace chuckled, a throaty and painfully sensual sound. "Please, James," she said, taking a step towards him. "I'm standing here in my underthings. You can dispense with the formalities."

James inched back in an effort to keep himself from tearing said underthings from her body right then and there, and found himself pressed against the edge of her desk. Their positions had been reversed. She was so very near, lips hovering above his own. He ached desperately to close the gap between them, to taste that ferocity again, ached to touch and take and _ravish_—

_Stop it! Stop it now!_

"Grace," he began, trying desperately to look at anything, _anything_ but her. "You're offering me something that I can't take."

She lay her hands against his stomach and he gripped the desk like a lifeline, not quite managing to stifle the groan that sprang from her touch.

"On the contrary," she murmured. "I'm offering you something that we both want very much."

_She's right. She's right. Oh, God, why does she have to be right?_

"I can't—" he tried again, but Grace's hands sliding up and across his chest robbed him of his voice.

"You won't be taking anything from me," she said.

He had thought as much. A woman in this life? He would have been very surprised to have learned otherwise, but if he was no threat to her virtue, what was deterring him? Why was he so steadfastly resisting? What she was offering, and offering freely, of her own volition, was…tempting. It had been years since he had felt this, too many years. Not even Elizabeth had conjured this degree of need in him.

_Elizabeth._

Was it her? Was he denying himself because of _her_, out of some twisted vestige of devotion to _her, _to a silly girl who was repulsed by the very thought of him? Would he never be free of it? The blunt truth hit him like the cold spray of the sea—Elizabeth did not want him. Elizabeth did not want him, and he had never wanted her, not like this. He wanted Grace, and for once in his life, consequences be damned.

"Take down your hair."

Grace's eyes never left his as she pulled the pins from her hair. James had taken a secret pleasure in seeing her with her hair unbound for months, but this was not the usual windswept tangle that framed her face. This was a soft, golden wave that tumbled around her shoulders and flowed over James' fingers like silk. Leaning into her, he caught the scent of gunpowder on her neck, and blood pounded in his ears. He felt suddenly giddy; wickedly, wantonly giddy.

"Have you any idea what you're asking for?" he whispered. His voice was a rough growl, collapsing into a wrenching gasp as Grace's fingers slipped beneath his waistcoat, caressing him. Everything in him seized, gripped by the sensation. She had no idea…none…no idea…

A guttural snarl ripped from his throat and James spun, pinning Grace to her desk with his hips. His teeth tore into her neck and she gave a startled, breathless cry. James turned away with a groan, head spinning.

_No, damn it all! God damn it!_

Control. Where had his control gone? He could feel it, hot and slick, roiling under his skin—all his depraved savagery clawing for release. The anguish and loneliness and years of restrained desire had taken their toll. He was dizzily aware of an obligation to apologize. He intended to apologize.

"I—"

"Don't you dare," Grace said, eyes wide and dark, looking just as ravening as he felt. She raised a hand to her neck, tracing her fingers over the already bruising mark in her fair skin. A shuddering sigh escaped her lips and she reached for him, fingers twining in his hair. The kiss was hard and desperate and a little begging, a declaration and a challenge.

"I know what I'm asking," she whispered, running her teeth along his ear. "I know."

His fingers fumbled with the knot in her shift laces, and hers fumbled with his belt. Lips, teeth, and nails giving and gripping in a frantic descent into a place where right and wrong no longer mattered, burning away restraint and honor until there was nothing left but him and her and the feel of skin against cloth that quickly gave way to skin against skin.

The knotted web of scarring in the hollow of her left shoulder gave him pause. His fingers traced it lightly, almost reverently, and her hands followed the lines of his own, reading each other through the brands of faded pain. The pistol shot to her shoulder, the cutlass swipe along his ribs and cut glass shards in his arms, a knife blade to her hip, a boarding axe to his, and long marks of the lash for them both, though hers were etched far deeper. The sea had broken her as it had him, broken her and remade her with steel in her soul.

_Beautiful. _

He pushed her and she pulled him and with an aggression that made her gasp, he had her on her back. She drew him down to her, lips melding to his, tongues twining as her hands wandered his body, feather-light and maddening. He mapped her with kisses, trailing teeth over her trembling skin, teasing her breasts with his tongue until she mewled and writhed beneath him. Christ, she was a joy to watch, head thrown back in pleasure; exposed, vulnerable, his for the taking. He tasted her pulse thrumming wildly against his lips and he shook with the strain of waiting. He felt her breath on his neck, and then her voice, lilting and liquid, whispered, "Stop fighting,".

Whether he took her or she took him he couldn't say and he didn't care. She was no virgin, and while it was clear she didn't part with her favors often, her motion spoke of practice and a need that rivaled his own. She rolled her hips to meet him, so eager and so hot and tightening and oh, God he'd forgotten how good it felt. He lost himself in her and she clung to him, her nails raking fire across his back, arching and straining until she shuddered around him with a strangled scream. He pushed into her harder, fingers gripping and stomach clenching, his breath racking him in aching sobs and then the world shifted, the ship pitched, and he collapsed beside her. A cool hand brushed the hair from his eyes, and she took him in her arms as the waves rocked them both into oblivion.

* * *

Grace woke up cold with the taste of tears on her lips. It was still dark, with no trace of dawn on the horizon through her window, and the blackness leered at her, accusing and condemning. Her nightmare had vanished beyond recalling, leaving her empty and sick. Her skin felt grimy and her very veins felt tainted and sludgy. She shivered, realizing she was naked, and shivered again when she remembered why. She didn't have to look to know the place beside her was empty.

_What, were you expecting him to stay?_

She wanted to believe it had been a mistake, but she knew herself far better than that. It had been foolish, perhaps, but his lips had been so warm and she had wanted so badly to forget, just for a little while. Forgetting was done now.

Grace sat up, drawing the blanket around her shoulders and a dim little shock shot through her when she saw James silhouetted against the starboard window. He had donned his breeches but not bothered with the rest of him and the bottle of wine from earlier hung limply from his hand.

"I thought you'd gone," she murmured into the stillness. James turned to her but didn't speak. He stood very still and even in the darkness Grace could feel his eyes on her.

"Why?" he said at last, and Grace felt his gaze lift.

"Why what, James?" she asked, feeling suddenly a little colder. She pulled the blanket tighter, but this chill wasn't in the air.

"Why…" he sighed. "Why did you allow me to…ah, Christ!"

Grace heard the gritty slosh of wine against cheap glass as he tossed back what was clearly not the first pull. A sudden urge to charge across the cabin, wrench the bottle from his hands, and beat him soundly with it before chucking it overboard spiked through her, but, she remembered, she was conspicuously nude.

_As if that mattered now_.

"Persuading you to desist would have been counterproductive," she answered, ignoring the rush of heat to her face. He gave a short, scoffing laugh and took another pull at the bottle.

"Seducing me was your intention, then?"

Grace bristled at the snide way "seducing" grated across his tongue, as if he thought she'd done him wrong by it.

_Did him a bloody favor, more like!_

"I had no intention of luring you between my thighs until you saw fit to broadside my mouth instead of hitting me back properly," she quipped, and she could nearly taste his shock. "I had thought to wait until we put in at Tortuga before I employed my feminine wiles against you, but it would seem you were the more eager."

He came closer, close enough to see the bewilderment on his face. "Why?" he asked again. "Why would you want—" He fell to the bed beside her and Grace instinctively gripped the blanket. "Look at me," he said, spreading his arms. "What possible interest, what possible attraction could I hold for you?"

"James," Grace half-laughed. "I fail to see what argument you're trying to make to me. You're a most attractive man."

He stared at her, an almost wounded expression, as though she'd posed him a riddle he had no hope of solving.

"What's the matter?" Grace asked. "You don't believe me?"

He sighed, dragging a hand through his tangled hair. "I realize I…provoked the incident," he said. "I thought perhaps that what followed was merely the result of convenience, but that's not the case, is it?"

A fluttering, icy panic gripped Grace's veins. James' eyes, muted grey in the pale light, bored into her with an intensity she had never seen there before.

"No," she whispered, her throat dry. "That's not the case." His gaze was burning, but she couldn't look away.

"You said you had waited far too long," he continued, his voice a low murmur under her skin. "What did you mean by that?"

Grace drew a deep breath, attempting to ease the inexplicable terror she felt, but her heart only raced faster.

_Enough of this! It's only a question._

She tore her gaze from his, squeezing her eyes shut. Deep down, she could feel herself beginning to shake.

"James," she said at last. "Surely you know."

He didn't answer. They sat side by side, the silence stretching longer between them. Grace wished he would speak; the quiet was giving her mind time to wander and it could only wander one place. Bile rose in her throat.

_I killed a man tonight. Murdered him. _

Her hands were clammy and cold. Her fingers ached from gripping the blanket. In her mind's eye, a distraught widow wept beside an empty grave and doting children waited in vain for a father who would never step through their door again, who would never again bring them little prizes from the far side of the world, as she did for her Benjamin. She had killed that man, wrenched him from this mortal coil without a thought and sent him…where? Did he now sit with the white-robed hosts at the foot of God, or had he been a poor soul as damned as she?

_Noso Pai que estás no ceo: santificado sexa o teu nome, veña a nós o teu reino e fágase a túa vontade aquí na terra coma no ceo. O noso pan de cada día dánolo hoxe; e perdóano-…_

"Grace?"

She jolted back to reality with a gasp. James was staring at her again, though this time his eyes were worried.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Grace tried to feign a smile and found she couldn't.

"I'm fine," she lied, clutching the blanket and willing her voice not to tremble.

"Grace, you're shaking," James said. "Are you cold?"

The honest concern in his voice nearly broke her resolve, and she held her breath until the tightness in her throat subsided. "I am, a bit," she answered. Her voice was steady enough.

She felt James stand up, heard him set the bottle down, but couldn't bring herself to look at him. He wasn't supposed to see this. No one was supposed to see this.

"Here," Jams said, handing her his shirt. "It will keep you warmer than that shift." He sat down beside her again. "I won't watch, you know."

Grace hurriedly tugged the shirt on over her head. It was warm, but the shivering didn't stop, and she knew it wouldn't, not for a long while yet. She jumped again when she felt the blanket draped around her. James' hands rested there, squeezing her shoulders just slightly. She wanted nothing more in that moment than for him to hold her together while she weathered the storm that was coming. Could she even think to ask that of him?

"Thank you," she said softly, and they lapsed into silence again. For all her trembling, Grace found that she was acutely aware of James; her skin tingled under the gentle pressure on her shoulders and his breath struck little needles on the back of her neck.

"You're still shaking," James said, and the question she half-hoped he would ask lurked behind his words. She forced a wan smile.

"I'll be fine, really," she assured him, but her voice wavered and broke and she coughed as her throat constricted with the weight of restraining tears. She dug her teeth into her lip, nails biting into her own arms. James shifted beside her, his hands slipping off her shoulders.

"Begging your pardon, but I disagree," he said.

Grace's stomach twisted. "You're certainly entitled to your thoughts," she bit out, trying her hardest to focus her mind out of its guilty spiral. She was losing the struggle, and loosing it rapidly. She could see Skinner's frightened, begging eyes as clearly as if he lay in front of her now, his pleas for mercy ringing in her memory. Her breath shuddered in her throat.

"Grace?"

_Non. Eu non podo mirar. _

James' fingers brushed her face and he turned her to look at him. A tear or two escaped Grace's eyes and she clenched them shut to stem the tide.

"Grace, I've been a soldier since I was little more than a child," James said, his voice quiet. "Don't think for a moment that I can't recognize what's happening to you."

She opened her eyes. James gave her a weak half-smile, caressing the tears from her cheek with a calloused thumb. She leaned into his touch, drawing what comfort she could from his closeness. Turning in to his hand, she pressed a soft kiss to his palm; she felt him shudder and sigh.

"I should leave you," he said softly. He drew his hand away, but his fingers trailed along her jaw. He stood to leave, and Grace felt cold grip her from her core, a frigid panic deep enough to ice her soul.

"Stay," she whispered into the dark. James looked back at her, brows drawn in surprise and a sad sort of sincerity.

"You wish me to stay?" he asked, his voice as dry as hers.

"Yes."

The reply was barely audible, but it trembled the air between them like a plucked bowstring. Slowly, James sat back down beside her, raising a hand to her face again. A teary laugh broke from Grace's throat, and without hesitation James wrapped his arms around her. Her resolve gave way, and she collapsed against him as the storm took her. James didn't speak a word, but there was no need for it—the strength of his arms was enough.

Eventually, her tears dried her shaking eased away. She drifted on the edge of sleeping, feeling safe and small curled against James' chest; even asleep, his arms were still tight around her. As she slipped out of wakefulness, she felt the sea shift beneath the boards of her ship. The winds had changed.

* * *

A/N: One chapter and a brief epilogue remain.


End file.
